She stopped, and then went on again: “I don’t believe you ought to try to make Della think of the serious things any more than she naturally will. Be awfully considerate, fussy; spoil her—she likes that. Make father spoil her, too. And remember, no matter how cross or queer she may be, that ignoring all that is part of the penalty you have to pay for having a baby of your own.”
“Della’s not your style,” said Walter for the hundredth time, “but, really, if you would you could do a lot for her. She’s light on the surface, but there’s more to her than you’d think. Awfully sweet and generous. If we did have a baby and she had it to think about——”
“I know.”
“Will you help us through, Cecily? I don’t know much about such things, and mother’s gone. Her own mother is rather dreadful. Boarding house! We haven’t seen much of you lately, and that’s been all my fault, too. But now it might be—you’d be an angel to sort of stand by Della.”
“Of course I will.”
“Is Della in your room?”
“Yes. Come up.”
At the door of the room with the dim light they paused and listened, but Della was not sobbing. They entered softly. She had turned on her side and fallen asleep like a peaceful child.
“I’d say good-night to her,” said Cecily, and went downstairs again, closing the door after her. For a moment the warmth at her heart persisted and then loneliness, more devastating than ever, bitterness, jealousy of that husband and wife upstairs—together—swept her.