“Why don't you go away? What makes you talk like this? Don't you understand that he's my husband?”
Hunch moved toward the door.
“Yes,” he said, “he's your husband.” The meaning of that word seemed to be coming slowly into his mind.
“I'll tell you,” he said, with one hand on the door-knob, “I guess I made a mistake. I——”
“Yes, you have made a mistake.” She followed him toward the door. “Bruce has never said anything mean about you. But I know where he was the other night when he took care of you. And he wouldn't have told me if I hadn't almost made him. And now you——”
They stood at the door looking into each other's eyes—hers flashing, his stupid. A choking sound came from the cradle. Mamie stepped softly across the room and set the cradle rocking gently. Then she bent over it, patting the little blanket and whispering. Hunch stood watching her. She pressed her cheek to the face on the pillow, then suddenly stood up. Her face grew white. She looked at Hunch, and he tiptoed across the room and bent over the cradle. The baby's face was white. He touched the face with his finger. It was cold.
Mamie sank into a chair. She was still looking at him. He said awkwardly, “I'll get Bruce.”
His hat had dropped to the floor and he picked it up and tiptoed back to the door. He opened it and turned. Mamie had thrown herself across the cradle, and he went out without speaking.
He found Bruce in Herve's saloon and sent him home.