It was during this period of indifference, of atrophied emotions, and moral inertia, that her second child was born to her,--a son. What once had been the crowning wish of her life was now granted when she had ceased to desire the gift. The birth of the boy was her final humiliation. Arnott, himself, awaited the coming of this child with mixed emotions; its birth was at once a source of triumph and of disgust to him. The last remnant of respect he retained for Pamela died at the boy's birth. He scorned her weakness, yet he rejoiced at it because of the more complete hold it gave him upon her. She could never reproach him with being the father of their second child; she must even cease to reproach him for the past. She was now equally guilty with him. Pamela had made her first great mistake in refusing to part from him; her second greater mistake resulted in the birth of their son. By an odd chance, as though an ironic fate decreed that this child should perpetuate the older shame of his parents' bigamous marriage with the later shame of his own birth, the baby was born on the anniversary of the wedding day. The old custom of keeping up that date as the most festive day in the year would assuredly have lapsed, even had the boy's coming not made it an impossibility. Whatever Arnott felt about the matter, Pamela could not have celebrated with her friends the mock event which formerly had been to her a glad and sacred rite. She deeply regretted that the boy's birth fell on the same date. Always she would be reminded of that date, would be compelled to recognise it. With each year of the child's growth it would assume an added importance, call for greater distinctiveness; the child when he grew old enough would insist on its recognition. Arnott bought her a diamond bracelet to celebrate the double event; but he had sense enough not to present his offering until she was downstairs again and able to take an interest in things. He gave it to her one afternoon out in the garden. They had had tea together under the trees, and Pamela lay in her cane lounge, so still and so unusually silent that he fancied she was drowsy, and remained quiet also in order not to disturb her. But Pamela was not asleep; she was lost in thought. Suddenly she opened her eyes and looked at him fully. "I have been thinking about a name for baby," she said. "Have you any preference in the matter?" "No," he answered. He thought he detected a slight shade of vexation pass across her face, and added, after reflection: "Why not Herbert? ... We've reproduced you." She flushed faintly. "That was your wish," she said. "But it seems to me confusing when the children are christened after the parents." "Well, it was merely a suggestion," he returned easily. "I think I should like him called David, after my father," she added presently. "He was the best man I have ever known."