“That’s it!” she cried, her eyes distended. “Babies! Cecily, Cecily, they say I’m going to have a baby and I won’t, I won’t! And Walter is so cruel about it.”
Cecily was no longer naïve about such things. She had heard many conversations which had told her unwilling ear much about involuntary motherhood. But never had she seen such horror as was Della’s. Mixed with her recoil from the violence and the ugly mood of the girl was a queer feeling of responsibility that was almost pride. Della had come to her.
“You’re going to have a baby, Della? Why, you silly girl, that’s the nicest thing that could happen to you. I’m awfully glad.”
“Don’t! I thought you’d help me! I know it’s all right for you to have children, Cecily—you’re the domestic type—but I’m not. I won’t, I won’t, I tell you! I won’t lose my figure and have to give up dancing and get old and ugly and repulsive and listen to babies all the night and die!”
Cecily sat down beside her and took hold of one clenched little hand. “Tell me all about it, Della,” she said quietly. “When did you find out all this?”
“Last week.”
“Did you see Dr. Norton?”
“Not him. He was horrid to me once. I wouldn’t go to see him.”
“But how do you know?”
“I saw another doctor.” She had stopped crying. “I hunted one out on Eighth Street where no one would know me or begin to talk about it or tell anybody.”