“Sleeping just like a kitten,” the proud mother answered.  “You just ought to have seen her, one little hand all cuddled up against her face.  I just couldn’t bear to leave her.”

Over Lillian Gale’s face swept a swift spasm of pain.  So quickly was it gone that I would not have noticed it, had not my eyes happened to rest on her face when Mrs. Lester spoke of her baby.  Was there a child in that hectic past of hers?  I decided there must be.

“Why don’t you telephone now and satisfy yourself that the baby is all right, and instruct the maid to call you if she sees anything unusual about her?” I queried.

“Tell her you are going to telephone every little while.  Then she will be sure to keep on the job,” cynically suggested Mrs. Underwood.

“Oh, that will be just splendid,” chirped Mrs. Lester.  “Thank you so much, Mrs. Graham.  Where is the telephone?”

“Dicky will get the number for you,” said Mrs. Underwood, ushering her into the living room.  I heard her shrill voice.

“Oh, Dicky-bird, please get Mrs. Lester’s apartment for her.  She wants to be sure the baby’s all right.”

Then I heard a deeper voice.  “For heaven’s sake, Daisy, don’t make a fool of yourself.  The kid’s all right.”  That was Mr. Lester’s voice, of course.  Neither the tones of Dicky nor Harry Underwood had the disagreeable whining timbre of this man’s.

Lillian’s retort made me smile, it was so characteristic of her.

“Who unlocked the door of your cage, anyway?  Get back in, and if you growl again tonight there will be no supper for you.”

We all laughed and I went to help Katie put the finishing touches to our dinner.  When I returned Mrs. Lester was seated in an armchair in the corner as if on a throne, with Harry Underwood in an attitude of exaggerated homage before her.

I felt suddenly out of it all, lonely.  These people were nothing to me, I said to myself.  They were not my kind.  I had a sudden homesickness for the quiet monotony of my life before I married Dicky.  I thought of the few social evenings I had spent in the days before I met Dicky, little dinners with the principals and teachers I had known, when I had been the centre of things, when my opinions had been referred to, as Lillian Gale’s were now.

I went through the rest of the evening in a daze of annoyance and regret from which I did not fully emerge until we were all at the dinner table, with Dicky officiating at the chafing dish.  Then suddenly Mrs. Lester turned to me, her face filled with nervous fears.

“Oh, Mrs. Graham, I don’t believe I can wait for anything.  I am getting so nervous about baby.  I know it’s awful to be so silly, but I just can’t help it.”

“Daisy!” Her husband’s voice was stern, his face looked angry.  “Do stop that nonsense.  We are certainly not going home now.”

His wife seemed to shrink into herself.  Her pretty face, with its worried look, was like that of a little girl grieving over a doll.  I felt a sudden desire to comfort her.