She touched him on the cheek with her lips. He wakened at once.
"What is it, my pet?" he asked anxiously, striking a match and holding it close to her face.
"Louis, I can't let our baby come to live in Sydney," she said.
"Well, he isn't coming to Sydney to-night," he laughed.
"No. But I want it settled. Louis, I was thinking it would be a good plan to ask uncle to let us go and work for him. But now I feel I can't go among his people—"
"You're afraid of what I'll get up to?"
"Not a bit, now. Only they'd never understand you as I do. And—we're fearfully happy when we don't have whisky worrying us. Don't you think we could go and live together in the Bush?"
He sat up, lit a cigarette and passed it to her. Then he lit one for himself.
"Can't you face the fact that you're going to be ill, Marcella?" he said, irritably. "You'll have to lie down for hours and all sorts of things. You're a lick to me—abso-bally-lutely! You ought not to be well like this! Lord, the things I've been told about women having babies! They simply get down to it—all except the unrefined working women."
"Then I'm an unrefined working woman, that's all," she said complacently. "Anyway, Louis, to please you or anyone else I can't pretend to be ill. Now just forget it till it gets obtrusive. I shall."