Suddenly it was revealed to me that she was the loveliest woman I had ever seen in all my life! How could I have been so slow in grasping this great, bewildering truth? The prettiest woman I had ever looked upon! Of course I had known it from the first instant that I looked into her eyes, but I must have been existing in a state of stupefaction up to this illuminating moment. I am afraid that I stared. "Turn you out?" I cried. "Turn you out of this delightful room after you've had so much trouble getting it into shape? Never!" "Oh, you don't know how I've imposed upon you!" she cried plaintively. "You don't know how I've robbed you, and bothered you--" "Yes, I do," said I promptly. "I know all about it. You've been stealing my coals, my milk, my ice, my potatoes, my servants, my sleep and "--here I gave a comprehensive sweep of my hand--"everything in sight. And you've made us walk on tip-toe to keep from waking the baby, and--" I stopped suddenly. "By the way, whose baby is it? Not yours, I'm sure." To my surprise her eyes filled with tears. "Yes. She is my baby, Mr. Smart." My face fell. "Oh!" said I, and got no further for a moment or two. "I--I--please don't tell me you are married!" "What would you think of me if I were to tell you I'm not?" she cried indignantly. "I beg your pardon," I stammered, blushing to the roots of my hair. "Stupid ass!" I muttered. Crossing to the fireplace, she stood looking down into the coals for a long time, while I remained where I was, an awkward, gauche spectator, conscious of having put my clumsiest foot into my mouth every time I opened it and wondering whether I could now safely get it out again without further disaster. Her back was toward me. She was dressed in a dainty, pinkish house gown--or maybe it was light blue. At any rate it was a very pretty gown and she was wonderfully graceful in it. Ordinarily in my fiction I am quite clever at describing gowns that do not exist; but when it comes to telling what a real woman is wearing, I am not only as vague as a savage, but painfully stupid about colors. Still, I think it was pink. I recall the way her soft brown hair grew above the slender neck, and the lovely white skin; the smooth, delicate contour of her half-averted cheek and the firm little chin with the trembling red lips above it; the shapely back and shoulders and the graceful curves of her hips, suggestive of a secret perfection. She was taller than I had thought at first sight, or was it that I seemed to be getting smaller myself? A hasty bit of comparison placed her height at five feet six, using my own as something to go by. She couldn't have been a day over twenty-two. But she had a baby! Facing me once more she said: "If you will sit down, Mr. Smart, and be patient and generous with me, I shall try to explain everything. You have a right to demand it of me, and I shall feel more comfortable after it is done."