John Smith agreed, furiously—and his upper lip lifted.
"I think," said Doctor Lavendar, "something has been born to-night—" He was very much out of breath.
"I'm walking too fast again? I beg your pardon, sir," the boy said.
"Suppose we stand still for a minute," said Doctor Lavendar.
They stood still; the rain fell heavily on Doctor Lavendar's shoulders and dripped from the brim of his old felt hat. "She deserted me," John said. "There is nothing to be said in excuse. Nothing."
"No, desertion can never be excused," the old man agreed; "and, as you say, when your body was born, she left it. To-night her soul has been born. Do you mean to desert it, John?"
"Even a dog doesn't leave her pups!" John said.
("His grandfather over again!" Doctor Lavendar thought.) Yet it was to that inherited brutality that he made his appeal:
"No; a mother has to be higher than an animal, to desert her young," Doctor Lavendar said.
The young man's violent agreement broke off in the middle:—"What do you mean by that?"