"Maurice, ... what does she call you?"
"Call me? What do you mean?"
"What name?"
"Why, 'Mr. Curtis,' of course."
"Not 'Maurice'? Oh—I'm so glad! Go on."
"Well, I never saw her again until she wrote to me about ... this child. Eleanor! I tried to tell you. Do you remember? One night in the boarding house—the night of the eclipse? I thought you'd never forgive me, but I tried to tell you ... Oh, Star, you are wonderful!"
It was an amazing moment; he said to himself: "Mrs. Houghton was right. Edith was right. How I have misjudged her!" He went on, Eleanor still kneeling beside him, sometimes holding his hand to her lips, sometimes pressing her wet cheek against his; once her graying hair fell softly across his eyes ... "Then," he said, "then ... the baby was born."
"Oh, we had no children!"
His arms comforted her. "I didn't care. I have never cared. I hated the idea of children, because of ... this child."
"Is his name Jacky?"