Della began to cry again. “Then why is he so cruel? Why does he want me to go through such an awful thing?”
“He doesn’t mean to be cruel. Of course he doesn’t realize what it means to a woman.”
That was the right note. A hint of martyrdom.
“I should say not.”
“And men are always pleased at news like that. I tell you, Della” (Cecily was striking her stride now), “men are never as crazy about a woman as when she is expecting her first baby. You see, they feel so grateful and so miserable.”
“I should think they would,” moaned Della.
“Of course you can’t see it as I do, but really the nicest time of my married life was before Dorothea came.” She faltered a little at that, for it was hard to use those memories for Della’s sake, but she realized that Della was listening finally.
“Dick couldn’t do enough for me.”
“Didn’t you die—staying in for months?”
“But you don’t, my dear—that’s awfully old-fashioned. That belonged to the days (here was an inspiration) when they didn’t have the modern point of view. And you can get the loveliest dresses. You’d be like a picture, Della.”