From the way she said it he judged there must be some bond of sympathy between her and her mother which would permit of a confidence such as this. He was by no means a hard man, and the thought touched him. But he would not relinquish his purpose. “There’s only one thing to be done, as far as I can see,” he went on very gently. “You’re not suited for the kind of work you’re doing. You’re too refined. I object to it. Give it up and come with me down to New York; I’ll take good care of you. I love you and want you. As far as your family is concerned, you won’t have to worry about them any more. You can take a nice home for them and furnish it in any style you please. Wouldn’t you like that?” He paused, and Jennie’s thoughts reverted quickly to her mother, her dear mother. All her life long Mrs. Gerhardt had been talking of this very thing—a nice home. If they could just have a larger house, with good furniture and a yard filled with trees, how happy she would be. In such a home she would be free of the care of rent, the discomfort of poor furniture, the wretchedness of poverty; she would be so happy. She hesitated there while his keen eye followed her in spirit, and he saw what a power he had set in motion. It had been a happy inspiration—the suggestion of a decent home for the family. He waited a few minutes longer, and then said: “Well, wouldn’t you better let me do that?” “It would be very nice,” she said, “but it can’t be done now. I couldn’t leave home. Papa would want to know all about where I was going. I wouldn’t know what to say.” “Why couldn’t you pretend that you are going down to New York with Mrs. Bracebridge?” he suggested. “There couldn’t be any objection to that, could there?” “Not if they didn’t find out,” she said, her eyes opening in amazement. “But if they should!” “They won’t,” he replied calmly. “They’re not watching Mrs. Bracebridge’s affairs. Plenty of mistresses take their maids on long trips. Why not simply tell them you’re invited to go—have to go—and then go?” “Do you think I could?” she inquired. “Certainly,” he replied. “What is there peculiar about that?” She thought it over, and the plan did seem feasible. Then she looked at this man and realized that relationship with him meant possible motherhood for her again. The tragedy of giving birth to a child—ah, she could not go through that a second time, at least under the same conditions. She could not bring herself to tell him about Vesta, but she must voice this insurmountable objection. “I—” she said, formulating the first word of her sentence, and then stopping. “Yes,” he said. “I—what?” “I—” She paused again. He loved her shy ways, her sweet, hesitating lips. “What is it, Jennie?” he asked helpfully. “You’re so delicious. Can’t you tell me?” Her hand was on the table. He reached over and laid his strong brown one on top of it. “I couldn’t have a baby,” she said, finally, and looked down.