CHAPTER XIV
Ian was leaning against the high mantel-piece of his study. Above it, let into the panelling, was an eighteenth-century painting of the Bridge and Castle of St. Angelo, browned by time. He was wondering how to tell Mildred about the child, and whether she would resent its presence. She, too, was meditating, chin on hand. At length she looked up with a sudden smile.
"What about the baby, Ian? Don't you take any notice of it yet?"
He was surprised.
"How do you know about him?"
She frowned thoughtfully.
"I seem to know things that have happened in a kind of way—rather as though I had seen them in a dream. But they haven't happened to me, you know."
"Was it the same last time?"