"Why _should_ they suffer?" There was some irritation in his tone. "Because I don't think, Robert, I'm really fit to bring up children." "I think you are. And I don't mean anybody else to bring them up. If you're my wife, Kitty, you're their mother." "And they're to be mine as well as yours?" "As much yours as you can make them, dear." "Oh, how you trust me. That's what makes me so afraid. And--do you think they'll really love me?" "Trust _them_--for that." "You asked me if I could care for you, Robert; you never asked me if I could care for them. You trusted me for that!" "I could have forgiven you if you couldn't care for _me_." "But you couldn't forgive me if I didn't care for them? Is that it?" "No; I simply couldn't understand any woman not caring for them. I think you _will_ like the little things, when you've seen them." "I'll promise you one thing. I won't be jealous of them." "Jealous? Why on earth should you be?" "Some women are. I was afraid I might be that sort." "Why?" "Because--oh, because I care for you so awfully. But that's just it. That's why I can't be jealous of them. They're yours, you see. I can't separate them from you." "Well, well, let's wait until you've seen them." "Don't you believe me, Robert? Women _do_ love their children before they've seen them. I don't need to see them. I _have_ seen them. I saw them all last night." She looked away from him, brooding, as if she still saw them. "There's only one person I could be jealous of, and I'm not jealous of her any more." "Poor little Jane." "It wasn't Jane. It was their mother. I mean it was your wife." He turned and looked at her. There was amazement in his kind, simple face. "I suppose you think that's fiendish of me?" He did not reply. "But--Robert--I'm not jealous of her any more. I don't care if she was your wife." "Kitty, my dear child----" "I don't care if she had ten children and _I_ never had one. It's got nothing to do with it. She had you for--two years, wasn't it?" "Two years, Kitty." "Poor thing; and I shall have you all my life." "Yes. And so, if you don't mind, dear, I'd rather you didn't talk about that again." "I'm sorry. I won't ever again." She sat silent for a moment in a sort of penitential shame. Then she burst out-- "I'm not jealous. But, Robert, if you were to leave me for another woman it would kill me. I daren't say that to any other man if I cared for him. It would just make him go and do it. But I believe somehow you'd think twice before you killed me." He only smiled at this, and spoke gently. "Yes, Kitty, you're right. I believe I _would_ think twice about it." He said to himself that this fierceness, her passionate perversity, all that was most unintelligible in her, was just Kitty's way--the way of a woman recklessly, adorably in love. It stirred in him the very depths of tenderness. When she was married (they must marry very soon) she would be happy; she would understand him; she would settle down.