“It’s about Naomi. You’re a father now, Philip ... twice a father, Philip. You’ve two children. They were twins.”
The knot of perplexity which had been tormenting his brain suddenly cleared away. Of course! That was what he couldn’t remember about Naomi. She had been going to have a baby, and now she had had two. Still he did not open his eyes. It was more impossible now than ever. He did not answer her, and presently Emma asked, “You heard what I said, Philip?”
“Yes, Ma.”
“You’re glad, aren’t you?”
He answered her weakly, “Of course ... why, of course, I’m glad.”
Again there was a long silence. He was ashamed again, because he had been forced to lie, ashamed because he wasn’t proud, and happy. His mother sat there trying to raise his spirits, and each thing she said only drove them lower. In that curious clarity of mind which seemed to possess his soul, he knew with a kind of horror that he had wanted to waken alone, free, in a new country, where he would never again see Naomi, or his mother, or the lace curtains, or the familiar, worn rocking-chair. That, he saw now, was why he had wanted to die. And now he was back again, tied to them more closely than ever.
At last he said in a low voice, “It was like Naomi, wasn’t it ... to have twins?”
“What do you mean?”
He hesitated a moment, and then said, “I don’t know ... I’m tired ... I don’t know.”
Again a silence. Deep inside him something kept urging him to break through all this web which seemed to be closing tighter and tighter around him. The last thought he could remember before slipping into the nightmare returned to him now, and, without knowing why, he uttered it, “There won’t be any more children.”