"That," said Lethbury judicially, "encourages me to infer that you ought to be, and that, consequently, you've been giving yourself the unusual pleasure of doing something I shouldn't approve of." She met this with an almost solemn directness. "No," she said. "You won't approve of it. I've allowed for that." "Ah," he exclaimed, setting down his liqueur-glass. "You've worked out the whole problem, eh?" "I believe so." "That's uncommonly interesting. And what is it?" She looked at him quietly. "A baby." If it was seldom given her to surprise him, she had attained the distinction for once. "A baby?" "Yes." "A--human baby?" "Of course!" she cried, with the virtuous resentment of the woman who has never allowed dogs in the house. Lethbury's puzzled stare broke into a fresh smile. "A baby I sha'n't approve of? Well, in the abstract I don't think much of them, I admit. Is this an abstract baby?" Again she frowned at the adjective; but she had reached a pitch of exaltation at which such obstacles could not deter her. "It's the loveliest baby--" she murmured. "Ah, then it's concrete. It exists. In this harsh world it draws its breath in pain--" "It's the healthiest child I ever saw!" she indignantly corrected. "You've seen it, then?" Again the accusing blush suffused her. "Yes--I've seen it." "And to whom does the paragon belong?" And here indeed she confounded him. "To me--I hope," she declared. He pushed his chair back with an inarticulate murmur. "To _you_--?" "To _us_," she corrected. "Good Lord!" he said. If there had been the least hint of hallucination in her transparent gaze--but no: it was as clear, as shallow, as easily fathomable as when he had first suffered the sharp surprise of striking bottom in it. It occurred to him that perhaps she was trying to be funny: he knew that there is nothing more cryptic than the humor of the unhumorous. "Is it a joke?" he faltered. "Oh, I hope not. I want it so much to be a reality--" He paused to smile at the limitations of a world in which jokes were not realities, and continued gently: "But since it is one already--" "To us, I mean: to you and me. I want--" her voice wavered, and her eyes with it. "I have always wanted so dreadfully...it has been such a disappointment...not to..." "I see," said Lethbury slowly. But he had not seen before. It seemed curious, now, that he had never thought of her taking it in that way, had never surmised any hidden depths beneath her outspread obviousness. He felt as though he had touched a secret spring in her mind. There was a moment's silence, moist and tremulous on her part, awkward and slightly irritated on his. "You've been lonely, I suppose?" he began. It was odd, having suddenly to reckon with the stranger who gazed at him out of her trivial eyes. "At times," she said. "I'm sorry."