"Ah!" he exploded. "You see you don't know! She is ninety-one
days and eight hours! Ha, ha! Imagine when she will be able to
walk all alone. Then we will take her back with us; we must wait
at least six months." Then, too late, poor George realized that
he had spoken the fatal phrase again.
"If only you hadn't put off our marriage, she would be able to
walk now," said Henriette.
He rose suddenly. "Come," he said, "didn't you say you had to
dress and pay some calls?"
Henriette laughed, but took the hint.
"Run along, little wife," he said. "I have a lot of work to do
in the meantime. You won't be down-stairs before I shall have my
nose buried in my papers. Bye-bye."
"Bye-bye," said Henriette. But they paused to exchange a dozen
or so kisses before she went away to dress.
Then George lighted a cigarette and stretched himself out in the
big armchair. He seemed restless; he seemed to be disturbed
about something. Could it be that he had not been so much at
ease as he had pretended to be, since the letter had come from
the baby's nurse? Madame Dupont had gone by the earliest train
that morning. She had promised to telegraph at once--but she had
not done so, and now it was late afternoon.
George got up and wandered about. He looked at himself in the
glass for a moment; then he went back to the chair and pulled up
another to put his geet upon. He puffed away at his cigarette
until he was calmer. But then suddenly he heard the rustle of a
dress behind him, and glanced about, and started up with an
exclamation, "Mother!"
Madame Dupont stood in the doorway.
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