But he dared not commit himself. He took the half-starved girl in his carriage—he kept a carriage now—to St. John’s Park to consult his partner in this grandchild.
He left Aletta in the parlor and went up the stairs with the baby. Sometimes when he had a woman for a client he found it best to put her on the witness stand and let her plead her own case to the jury. So he took the baby along now.
When he entered Patty’s room she was sitting rocking by the window gazing into nowhere. Her hands held a picture of Junior, and as RoBards paused he could see the few slow tears of weary grief drip and strike.
He could find no first word. It was the baby’s sudden gurgle that startled Patty. She turned, stared, rose, came to him, smiling helplessly at the wriggling giggler. Up went two handlets to buffet her cheeks as she bent to stare. She took the creature from her husband’s arms, lifting it till its cheek was silken against her own. For a little while she basked in contentment unvexed by curiosity, before she asked:
“And whose baby is this?”
“Yours,” said RoBards.
“My baby? What do you mean? Who was it came in with you?”
“Your daughter and mine—a new one we didn’t know we had. Honey, this is the little daughter of our blessed boy Junior.”
While RoBards was resolving her daze into an understanding of the situation, the child was pleading away her resentment, her suspicion. Before she knew the truth she was eager to have it true. She needed just that sort of toy to play with to save her from going mad with age and uselessness.
The hungry baby beat at her dry bosom in vain, but shook her heart with its need.