"I see," I gasped, wondering what words or acts of mine had conveyed this elaborate strategy to Gertrude. For the space of a minute perhaps I was sunk in thought. The vision of the children asleep in their innocent faith in me suddenly arose vividly and smote me to the heart. The nestling image of Jimmie—the girl Alicia with her great, wistful eyes telling me that there was nothing to do "but just love them"—all this was throbbing in my brain with every heartbeat. And had I in reality schemed out the intricate design with which Gertrude now credited me? By no cudgeling of my poor brains could I recall any such devising. It was impossible. It was new to me. Then something in me that is either better or worse than myself took the reins of the occasion and, like the auditor of another’s speech, I heard myself saying with solemn firmness: "No, Gertrude—you must have mistaken me. I had no such plan. We shall be married, of course, but our marriage can make no difference. I cannot turn these children, Laura’s children, out of the house. Not now, at all events, not until they’re older. They have no one in the world but me and I mean to keep them." "Mean to keep them! You mean that?" she gasped. And it pained me to be the cause of a deep flush on Gertrude’s face and neck. "I’ve never meant anything more certainly in my life," I told her. "Then we can’t marry," said Gertrude in a low tone, still scrutinizing me as though she were wondering whether she had ever met me before. "Why not?" I cried. "Why should they make so great a difference? In any case, didn’t you have an idea that we would each keep our separate flats?" "Don’t talk rot," flared Gertrude in an exasperation which I still deplore, for the steely glitter in her eyes was not pleasant. "I am not going to make myself ridiculous by marrying a houseful of kids for whom my husband is the nurse. Do you really stick to that, Ranny?" "Yes, Gertrude," I nodded. "I must." Gertrude gazed at me searchingly for a moment, then to my amazement she laughed in my face, a trifle louder than her wont. Laughter was at that instant far from my thoughts. "Oh, well," she resumed her earlier lightness of tone, "then we’ll simply postpone our marriage a while. You’ll get tired of this maternity game, Ranny, depend on it. We’ve postponed it three years—a few months more can’t make much difference, can it?" Then she approached me and took my hand. "Little boy’s tender conscience must be given its fling, mustn’t it?" she began mockingly, in imitation of a child’s speech, in which she does not excel. "Never mind, give its little whim its head." A remarkable woman, is Gertrude. "Perhaps it’s only proper," she concluded more seriously, "that we should postpone it, since you are just now in mourning."