“Will you call again?,” asked Barbara perfunctorily.
“I don’t suppose he wants to be bothered,” I said.
There was a long silence; and Barbara’s shoulders moved in a slight shrug:
“I don’t suppose he wants to be friends. I tried, when we met at Croxton; but, when there’s been love, I don’t think you can go back to friendship.” She looked at me almost guiltily; and for an embarrassed moment I feared that I was to be drawn into yet one more unwanted confidence. Then, changing her mind, she walked slowly to the fire and stood with the dancing flames reflected in her sombre eyes. “I’m . . . glad he’s going,” she murmured at last. “I’ve not really been myself since I met him again, whatever I told you about feeling free. When you wanted me to come with you to Ireland . . . I was mad. I’ll go with you now, if you like . . . anywhere. We’ve talked so often about a fresh start: I can make it now. I do want our life to be a success. If there’s anything I can do . . .”
“You can’t do more than you’re doing at present,” I said.
With a sudden turn, Barbara flung her arms about my neck and hid her face against my chest.
“Is there nothing more that you want?,” she asked. “Don’t say ‘your happiness’! I know you want that, darling. Don’t you want anything for yourself? Don’t you want me to be like other women? Don’t you want me to have children?”
“Most men want children,” I said, “but women have to bear them.”
“Yes . . . I’ve always wanted children and I’ve always been afraid of them. I’m still afraid, . . . but I’m going to have one now, George, . . . for your sake. You’re pleased? Hold me tight, darling, and promise me one thing. If anything goes wrong . . .”
“But, good God . . .!,” I began.