“Oh, Liz, be glad for me. I’m so glad and happy, and I want some one to be glad too. You don’t know how I’ve wanted it. No one knows. I’ve simply hated all the people in the Morning Post who had babies. I’ve not even read the first column for weeks, and when Sybil Delamere sent me an invitation to her baby’s christening—she was married the same day I was, you know—I just tore it up and burnt it. And now it’s really coming to me, and you’re to be glad for me, Liz.”
“Molly, darling, I am glad—so glad.”
“Really?”
Mary looked up into her sister’s face, searchingly.
“You’re thinking of me, really of me—not about David, as you were just now? Oh, yes, I knew.”
Elizabeth laughed.
“Really, Molly, mayn’t I think of my own husband?”
“Not when I’m telling you about a thing like this,” said Mary. “Liz, you are the first person I have told, the very first.”
Elizabeth did not allow her thoughts to wander again. As they talked, the rain beat heavily against the windows, and they heard the rush of it in the gutters below.
“What a pity,” Mary cried. “How quickly it has come up, and last night was so lovely. Did you see the moon? And to-night it is full.”