"I know," said Dorothy bashfully. "But it isn't the same—being a father. It's—it's different. It's not the same. I doubt whether any man knows what it means to us as we wait and wonder—and wait and wonder—day after day—day after day——"
Here she dropped her eyes. Here also Mr. Miller dropped his head.
"It isn't the same—being a father—it's different," Dorothy was heard to murmur.
Mr. Miller breathed something about the holiest spot on oith.
"So you see," Dorothy resumed presently, hoping that Mr. Miller did not see. "It's the nearest subject of all to us. The very first question we ask one another is, 'Do you hope it's a little boy or a little girl?' And as it's impossible to tell, it's impossible for us to make our preparations. Lady Upshire doesn't know one bit more about it than the poorest woman in the streets. And this in an age that boasts of its Science!"
"Well," said Mr. Miller, giving it consideration, "that's ver-ry true. I ain't a knocker; I don't want to get knocking our men of science; but it's a fact they cann't tell. I recollect Mrs. Miller saying to me——"
"Yes—look at it from Mrs. Miller's point of view——"
"I remember Mrs. Miller using the ver-ry woids you've just used, Mrs. Stan. (I hope this don't jolt Miss Deedes too much; it's ver-ry interessting). And that's one sure thing, that it ain't a cinch for Mrs. Bradley Martin any more than what it is for any poor lady stenographer at so many dallars per. But—if you'll pardon me putting the question in that form—where's the point, Mrs. Stan? What's the reel prapasition?"
This being precisely what Dorothy was rather carefully avoiding, again she smiled bashfully and dropped her head, as if once more calling on those profound reserves of Mr. Miller's veneration for motherhood. These even profounder reserves, of Mr. Miller's veneration for dallars, were too much to the point altogether.