Robert was happily unconscious of the change, or if he noticed it was content to ascribe it to a more obvious reason. He himself was ready to welcome his fourth child with an ardour undamped by considerations of money. He adored children, and was delighted that the three-year-old Joyce should have a successor; but Jean’s satisfaction was dependent on a possibility—“If it is a boy!” A live son would compensate a hundred times over for the added strain and burden involved by the addition to the nursery. But the son was not forthcoming, and when a third little daughter was put into her arms Jean shed weak tears of disappointment.
“She’s the prettiest of all your babies, Jean,” Vanna declared a week later as she nursed the little flannel bundle on her arm, and gazed down at the small downy head. “She has just your eyes.”
“All babies’ eyes are the same.”
“This baby’s aren’t; and she has the daintiest little head! Lorna’s head was ugly at this stage. And her nose! Her nose is perfect.”
“Is it?” The voice from the bed was so listless and faint that Vanna held up the little face, insisting upon notice.
“Look at her! Look for yourself. Acknowledge that she is a duck!”
Jean’s lip quivered.
“I wanted a boy, a little son to make up... It seems so hard—”
Vanna pressed the downy head to her heart.
“Poor little superfluous woman! You are not wanted, it seems. Give her to me, Jean—she’d be worth the whole world. I mean it, you know! Say the word and I’ll take her home this moment, and adopt her for life.”