"Well, there are several possibilities. First, there's their aunt...."
"Oh, the Fraile woman? I've never met her. Isn't she ... well, a trifle...."
"Oh, quite. She's a leading candidate for the position of first American saint. But there'd be no point in keeping on with her, with James away at school and Harry ready to go."
"Oh, really? I didn't realize."
"No," continued James, raising his eyes to his sister's and smiling slightly, "what it will come to will be that I shall have six children instead of four. Or rather, seven instead of five."
"Oh, really?" This in a changed tone from the lady.
"Yes, hasn't she told you? April."
"No." The practical mood seemed to have undergone a setback; there was something new in that monosyllable, irritation, a twinge of pain, perhaps. An outside observer might have thought this was due to Miriam's having been left out of her sister-in-law's confidence, but James knew better. He felt sorry for his sister; he knew that her childlessness was the one blight on her career.
"I don't see why you should do it, James." This after a long interval of silent thought on the part of Miriam, and passive observation of the rushing autumn landscape on the part of James. "I don't see why, when I'm equally responsible. It isn't a question of money, so much—I suppose that will be left all right?"
"Oh, undoubtedly. Though I don't know just how."