“Soap and Christmas candles,” I said, and held out my cigar for his light.
“Married?”
“Yes, you?”
“Um-m-m-m.” And he stretched his legs, drew up his elbows and looked worried.
“When I was making this territory about this time last year,” he began, “I met a pretty, wifely little girl, and we were married before I left town. Tarascon wasn’t on my regular trip then, but now I have to strike home once a month.
“You see, I was raised in a family of sisters—all older than I, all unmarried. I could never bring myself to tell them about Edyth. They don’t know it yet. Live in Cranford, on the Vandalia. My wife thinks I haven’t any folks.”
“Well?”
He blushed. “There—it—we—I’m going to be a father.” Then he did blush.
I laughed, sympathetic. “You can’t bear not to let your sisters know?” I ventured.
He nodded and gulped.