“What sort of a child do you wish to have, Rosamund?”
“What sort?” she said, looking at him with surprise in her brown eyes.
“Yes.”
“What do you mean? A beautiful, strong, healthy child, of course, the sort of child every married woman longs to have, and imagines having till it comes.”
“Beautiful, strong, healthy!” he repeated, returning her look. “Of course it could only be that—your child. But I meant, do you want it to be a boy or a girl?”
“Oh!”
She paused, and looked away from him and down at the uncemented marble blocks which form the pavement of the Parthenon.
“Well?” he said, as she kept silence.
“If it were to be a girl I should love it.”
“You wish it to be a girl?”