“Don’t! I thought you’d help me! I know it’s all right for you to have children, Cecily--you’re the domestic type--but I’m not. I won’t, I won’t, I tell you! I won’t lose my figure and have to give up dancing and get old and ugly and repulsive and listen to babies all the night and die!” Cecily sat down beside her and took hold of one clenched little hand. “Tell me all about it, Della,” she said quietly. “When did you find out all this?” “Last week.” “Did you see Dr. Norton?” “Not him. He was horrid to me once. I wouldn’t go to see him.” “But how do you know?” “I saw another doctor.” She had stopped crying. “I hunted one out on Eighth Street where no one would know me or begin to talk about it or tell anybody.” “Eighth Street! Why, Della, that’s no street for decent doctors!” “Lots of doctors advertise in the windows along there,” said Della sullenly. “Anyway, I wasn’t going to Dr. Norton.” “And this other doctor told you what?” Della shuddered convulsively. “He was horrible--horrible. Such an awful place with dreadful looking women around in the waiting room. And a man tried to flirt with me and the doctor patted me on the arm and told me that he could tell me more about it and that he’d have to see a hundred dollars first. And I didn’t know what to do, Cecily, so I hurried out of there and it’s lucky I wasn’t murdered or didn’t have my gold purse stolen.” “What happened then?” “I’ve been worrying till I was almost dead. Walter knew I wasn’t myself--my skin was all dead looking! Look at me, Cecily. I’m a perfect fright! So to-night he found me crying and he asked me what the matter was, and I told him, and he was glad, he said. Glad! Glad that I was going to die!” “Nonsense, Della. Why shouldn’t he be glad?” “He said he thought it would mature me and that we’d both be happier and that he’d try to make it easy--as if it could be easy! I’d die; I’m the type that always dies, leaving a baby, and the man marries again. And I told Walter he’d marry again; no, I told him I wouldn’t have it, I wouldn’t, and I won’t!” “But there’s nothing to do about it.” “There must be things. There must be. Walter said that same thing--nothing to do. But I’ll kill myself! I’ll show you all! I’ll show him!” For a few minutes Cecily let her storm. She was collecting her thoughts. The mad ignorance, the uncontrolled violence of this girl in the face of one responsibility horrified her. And astonished her, too. She had not dreamed Della was so ignorant. “But, Della, dear,” she found herself pleading, “you must have known that was one of the things that happen to people when they marry--babies.” Della shrugged her shoulders in angry impatience. “Don’t be silly, Cecily. You know lots of girls don’t have them and don’t ever intend to have them. Once in a while a girl makes a mistake.”