"Not that Mona isn't a superior girl. She is wonderful. But you are more wonderful. You, of all men, to fall in so speedily. I'm afraid, Jewel, you will make a sorry husband. You should have remained in Paris. And what will our dear old Easter, the celebrated Wagner singer, Istar, say when she hears that her young man has deserted her?" At Easter's name Ulick's brow wrinkled. His only answer was "Qui sait?" ... One afternoon in early summer Mona visited Ulick. He was looking from his window at a flock of pigeons on the roof of the dining-room. As soon as Mona entered he noted her blithe June air, but the expression of her eyes evoked autumnal cemeteries. "What's up, little mamma?" he asked as he embraced her. She buried her head in his breast. "I'm out of breath, Jewel," she panted. "I think mother followed me today. She has been spying on me most curiously for the past month. I wonder if she suspects?" "She wouldn't be a woman if she didn't. You give her lots of reasons to suspect--" he added, and at once regretted having spoken. Mona withdrew her arms and going to the couch sat down and incontinently burst into tears. In a moment Ulick was consoling her. She enjoyed a copious weeping, and drying her eyes she took him into her confidence. No, there couldn't be the slightest doubt.... Three months had passed. Nothing! Perhaps her mother had been keeping tabs. Prudent mothers do, and if her darling old mumsey was innocent of the world's ways, she possessed the common-sense of the average woman, more sense, in fact, than her dear father, always dreaming over chess or metaphysical problems. Although for months he had been expecting just such news Ulick couldn't repress a long whistle; then he gave her a bear-hug. She nestled, closed her eyes with a sigh of profound contentment. He studied her face. There were violet bruises under her eyes, and her features had become measurably meagre. Her high cheek-bones showed more saliently. Her plump body felt softer to his touch. Good God! She was enceinte, and there sat the pair of them without a sense of guilt, shame, or worriment over the future. Modern? Disgusting! Gently releasing her he began to pace the floor. She watched him. She was perfectly content. There is no tomorrow for such love. The pain in store for her, the world's censure, the shock to her poor parents, the outraged pride that would be Milt's--none of these things mattered now. She would in due time become a mother. She was in the family-way--homely, eloquent phrase, for some girls the abomination of desolation, whether married or single; for Mona a clear title to happiness. Oh! the joys of motherhood. A live lump of flesh in her bosom. Her flesh and Jewel's! What matters a ring, a bit of parchment, a ceremony? Nature, generous, glorious Nature, had performed this miracle in her behalf. She had in the recesses of her being created life. Illegitimate? There are no such monsters. All babies are