"I've never met her. It has seemed to me that you might have let me see her—"
Cissy flushed. "She's such a great grown-up," she said. "Somehow when I'm with her I feel—old—"
"You will never seem old," he said, with the nearest approach to tenderness that had softened his voice for days. "You have in you the spirit of eternal youth—"
Then he floundered on. "But a mother and a daughter—when you used to speak of her in Chicago, it seemed to me that I could see you together, and I liked the sweetness and womanliness of the thought; but I have never seen you together."
With a sense of recklessness upon her, Cissy suddenly determined to tell him the truth. "Cecily hasn't been going out much. You see, there's the baby—"
He stared. "The baby—?"
"Her baby—Cecily's—"
"Then you're a grandmother?"
It seemed to Cissy that the whole restaurant rang with the emphasis of the words. Yet he had not spoken loudly; not a head was turned in their direction; even the waiter stood unmoved.
When she came to herself Landry was laughing softly. "When are you going to let me see—the baby—?"