“Of course it isn’t. But I was fond of Fliss, especially after she was so fine when Dorothea was born. You know we did entertain for her and tried to make her know a few more people when she was just married, until we went to war. But she doesn’t seem to have much depth. Do you like a person who hasn’t more depth than Fliss?”
“I have all grades of liking,” pleaded Dick. “She’s amusing.”
“Well, if you feel so keenly about it,” said Cecily, “I’ll ask them to dinner next week. I’ll be glad to see Matthew and we’ll have an old time party.”
“Theater afterwards—maybe the Orpheum? We can get home early from there.”
“If you like,” assented Cecily.
Dick felt as if a point had been conceded to him when he was not in the least anxious for a personal concession. He went a few mental steps backward to see just where he had gone off the point, but it was an idle chase and he abandoned it after a moment.
Their evenings now had become rather of one pattern. They talked or read; Mrs. Warner came in; they went driving in the Warner’s big car or in Dick’s small one; they went to a moving picture or made a call on Dick’s mother—but always with the need of getting home early to the baby—always with the fear that Cecily was getting overtired hanging over them. Even their pleasures, their diversions, were never carefree. There were times when Dick felt that nurses and doctors and precautions about health had surrounded them rather unpleasantly long. But any such thoughts were always suppressed by the feeling that it was immensely selfish to feel any personal repressions when he had three healthy children and Cecily had been through so much. Three babies in four years! He had come to know and abhor the tone in which people, especially women, made that statement.
His talk seemed to bother Cecily. She brought it up again later in the evening when they had come home from a ride in the country and were giving the children a final inspection for the night. Dorothea and Leslie, in their white cribs, sturdy little bodies outlined under the miniature coverlets, were very pleasant to look at. It was a rite with Cecily—this last look—a reward for all the care they caused her and a further prayer for their health and safety.
“Don’t you think,” she said softly, as she stood looking at them, “that they are much more important than all the fun we might have had playing like Fliss?”
“You can’t compare two such dissimilar things,” said Dick, and then knew immediately that his remark had been true, but inadequate.