“Oh, no, it doesn't,” replied the latter decidedly.
“Why?” asked Orde, surprised. “You don't imagine he'll do anything more?”
“No, but I will,” said Newmark.
XXVII
Early in the fall the baby was born. It proved to be a boy. Orde, nervous as a cat after the ordeal of doing nothing, tiptoed into the darkened room. He found his wife weak and pale, her dark hair framing her face, a new look of rapt inner contemplation rendering even more mysterious her always fathomless eyes. To Orde she seemed fragile, aloof, enshrined among her laces and dainty ribbons. Hardly dared he touch her when she held her hand out to him weakly, but fell on his knees beside the bed and buried his face in the clothes. She placed a gentle hand caressingly on his head.
So they remained for some time. Finally he raised his eyes. She held her lips to him. He kissed them.
“It seems sort of make-believe even yet, sweetheart,” she smiled at him whimsically, “that we have a real, live baby all of our own.”
“Like other people,” said Orde.
“Not like other people at all!” she disclaimed, with a show of indignation.