The motion picture phrase struck Cecily as true. Della wasn’t the “type” to understand what she was talking about. Della had been told that she was the type to wear electric blue, to carry off a Marcel, to dance the toddle. And it was true. She hadn’t got a word of what Cecily said, and she wouldn’t. To her little mind there was no entrance for the abstract or the philosophical. It must all be pictorial. Cecily felt failure, and as she felt she wasn’t gaining her point, she cast about for new weapons. She was on the offensive with her philosophy this time, and she realized that the old weapons of defense were useless. She could not make Della see these things by talking to her. But there must be a way; she must find it. “You and Walter can talk about how low I am when you see him. He feels like you do,” said Della bitterly. “Walter thinks you’re wonderful,” answered Cecily. “He’s crazy about you.” Della began to cry again. “Then why is he so cruel? Why does he want me to go through such an awful thing?” “He doesn’t mean to be cruel. Of course he doesn’t realize what it means to a woman.” That was the right note. A hint of martyrdom. “I should say not.” “And men are always pleased at news like that. I tell you, Della” (Cecily was striking her stride now), “men are never as crazy about a woman as when she is expecting her first baby. You see, they feel so grateful and so miserable.” “I should think they would,” moaned Della. “Of course you can’t see it as I do, but really the nicest time of my married life was before Dorothea came.” She faltered a little at that, for it was hard to use those memories for Della’s sake, but she realized that Della was listening finally. “Dick couldn’t do enough for me.” “Didn’t you die--staying in for months?” “But you don’t, my dear--that’s awfully old-fashioned. That belonged to the days (here was an inspiration) when they didn’t have the modern point of view. And you can get the loveliest dresses. You’d be like a picture, Della.” It was clear that at last Della was getting a Madonna vision of herself. She had stopped crying except for an occasional dab at her eyes and with her eyes fixed on the other side of the room looked very young and pathetic. “There’s one thing,” said Cecily. “It isn’t all misery by any means. Everybody’s so awfully interested in you and so awfully nice to you; and you can do everything except maybe dive and dance--along towards the end--and then of course all the----” “But the end when you die, maybe!”