“The baby is six months old, now. You and Dick ought to go away for a vacation. I’ll stay here and get a trained nurse for the baby.”
Cecily did not take her up, but she watched Dick that night at dinner. They did not seem to talk as much as they used to—except about Dorothea. She crossed over to his place and put her hand softly under his chin.
“Do I neglect you, Dick, dear—for the baby?”
“Do I look neglected?” countered Dick. “Nonsense. Don’t talk like a problem play. Besides, how could you neglect me for Dorothea? She’s me, isn’t she?” And he smiled engagingly as only Dick could smile. “If I catch you neglecting me, you’ll hear from me. Who brought this on? Who’ve you been talking to?”
“Nobody. Mother just suggested that I might be a bit too concentrated. She wanted me to go away and leave her in charge.”
“Good idea. I think I could do it next month—if we aren’t going to war.”
“We must wait until after Christmas,” demurred Cecily.
But after Christmas they did not go at once. In January Cecily paid a secret visit to her doctor. When she came home she sat down in her straightest living-room chair and looked about her a little queerly. She was still sitting there half an hour later when Dick came home.
“Well,” said Dick, “how’s my family?”
Cecily made a feeble little joke, which showed considerable progress in adjustment.