"The damned thing," said Desmond, "is where you should have sent it first of all--at the War Office. You're clever, Nicky, but you aren't quite clever enough."
"I'm afraid," he said, "you've been a bit too clever, this time."
Drayton agreed with him. It was, he said, about the worst thing that could possibly have happened.
"She shouldn't have done that, Nicky. What on earth could have made her do it?"
"Don't ask me," said Nicky, "what makes her do things."
"It looks," Drayton meditated, "as if she didn't trust me. I'm afraid she's dished us. God knows whether we can ever get it back!"
Desmond had a fit of hysterics when she realized how clever she had been.
Desmond's baby was born late in November of that year, and it died when it was two weeks old. It was as if she had not wanted it enough to give it life for long outside her body.
For though Desmond had been determined to have a child, and had declared that she had a perfect right to have one if she chose, she did not care for it when it came. And when it died Nicky was sorrier than Desmond.