"Maybe I can't keep him," she replied, in a passionate undertone. "Maybe I do love you. Maybe he'd get to love you, too. But look at him, Jim! See where he lies?"
The man turned towards the bed.
"It's on my side, Jim! Understand? He lies there always till I come in. Know why?"
He watched her curiously.
"He'll wake up, Jim, when I lift him over. That's what he wants. He'll wake up and say, 'Is that you, mother?' And he'll be asleep again, God bless him! before I can tell him that it is. My God! Jim, I can't tell you what it means to come in at night and find him lying there. That little body of a man! That clean, white soul! I can't tell you how I feel, Jim. It's something a man can't know. And do you think he'd stand for you? He'd say he would. Oh, he'd say he would! He'd look in my eyes, Jim, and he'd find out what I wanted him to say; and he'd say it. But, Jim, he'd be hurt. Understand? He'd think I didn't love him any more. He's only a child—and he'd think I didn't love him. Where'd he sleep, Jim? Alone? He couldn't do it. Don't you see? I can't live with nobody, Jim. And I don't want to. I don't care for myself no more. I used to, in them days—when you and me and Dick and the crowd was all together. But I don't—no more!"
The man stooped, picked a small stocking from the floor, stood staring at it.
"I'm changed," the woman repeated, "since I got the boy."
"I don't know what you'll do, Millie, when he grows up."
She shook her head.
"And when he finds out?"