"Yes?"
"Haven't you noticed any difference in me lately?"
He had never noticed a difference in his wife. When they reached old age, he would still be unable to discern it. He shook his head and looked at her with some apprehension. She was troubled. "What's the matter?"
"I suppose you wouldn't—yet," she said. "But—well—I'm with child."
The professor folded his upper lip between his thumb and forefinger. "With child? Pregnant? You mean—"
"I'm going to have a baby."
Soon after their marriage the timid notion of parenthood had escaped them. They had, in fact, avoided its mechanics except on those rare evenings when tranquillity and the reproductive urge conspired to imbue him with courage and her with sinfulness. Nothing came of that infrequent union. They never expected anything.
And now they were faced with it. He murmured: "A baby."
Faint annoyance moved her. "Yes. That's what one has. What are we going to do?"
"I don't know, Matilda. But I'm glad."