Behind the screen, Rosie had lighted a cigarette and was smoking, sublimely unconscious of the blue smoke swirl that rose in telltale clouds high above her head. The baby had dropped asleep, and Claribel lay still. But her eyes were not on the ceiling; they were on the child.
Al leaned forward and put his lips to the arm that circled the baby.
"I'm sorry, kid," he said. "I guess it was the limit, all right. Do you hate me?"
She looked at him, and the hardness and defiance died out of her eyes. She shook her head.
"No."
"Do you—still—like me a little?"
"Yes," in a whisper.
"Then what's the matter with you and me and the little mutt getting married and starting all over—eh?"
He leaned over and buried his face with a caressing movement in the hollow of her neck.
Rose extinguished her cigarette on the foot of the bed, and, careful of appearances, put the butt in her chatelaine.