“Why, what’s the matter, Little Thing? Are you sick?”
She looked at me piteously.
“Have you not see? Have you not guess?”
“No, what?” I demanded in a tone of alarm.
“Pretty soon you are going to be a fazzer.”
“My God!”
I could only gasp and stare at her.
“Well, are you not going to kees me, and say you are not sorry?”
“Yes, yes. There, Little Thing ... I—I’m glad.”
But there was no conviction in my tone, and I sat gazing into vacancy. In my intense preoccupation never had such a thing occurred to me. It came as a shock, as something improper, as one of those brutal realities that break in so wofully on the serenities of life. There was a ridiculous side to it, too. I saw myself sheepishly wheeling a baby carriage, and I muttered with set teeth: “Never!”