“Very likely,” I assented, vastly amused at this unexpected turn.

“A Boy!” exclaimed Mr. Jaffrey, explosively.

“By all means, certainly, a son.”

“Great trouble about naming the boy.  Mehetabel’s family want him named
Elkanah Elkins, after her grandfather; I want him named Andrew Jackson. 
We compromise by christening him Elkanah Elkins Andrew Jackson Jaffrey. 
Rather a long name for such a short little fellow,” said Mr.
Jaffrey, musingly.

“Andy isn’t a bad nickname,” I suggested.

“Not at all.  We call him Andy, in the family.  Somewhat fractious at first—­colic and things.  I suppose it is right, or it wouldn’t be so; but the usefulness of measles, mumps, croup, whooping-cough, scarlatina, and fits is not clear to the parental eye.  I wish Andy would be a model infant, and dodge the whole lot.”

This suppositions child, born within the last few minutes, was plainly assuming the proportions of a reality to Mr. Jaffrey.  I began to feel a little uncomfortable.  I am, as I have said, a civil engineer, and it is not strictly in my line to assist at the births of infants, imaginary or otherwise.  I pulled away vigorously at the pipe, and said nothing.

“What large blue eyes he has,” resumed Mr. Jaffrey, after a pause; “just like Hetty’s; and the fair hair, too, like hers.  How oddly certain distinctive features are handed down in families!  Sometimes a mouth, sometimes a turn of the eye-brow.  Wicked little boys over at K——­ have now and then derisively advised me to follow my nose.  It would be an interesting thing to do.  I should find my nose flying about the world, turning up unexpectedly here and there, dodging this branch of the family and reappearing in that, now jumping over one great-grandchild to fasten itself upon another, and never losing its individuality.  Look at Andy.  There’s Elkanah Elkins’s chin to the life.  Andy’s chin is probably older than the Pyramids.  Poor little thing,” he cried, with sudden indescribable tenderness, “to lose his mother so early!” And Mr. Jaffrey’s head sunk upon his breast, and his shoulders slanted forward, as if he were actually bending over the cradle of the child.  The whole gesture and attitude was so natural that it startled me.  The pipe slipped from my fingers and fell to the floor.

“Hush!” whispered Mr. Jaffrey, with a deprecating motion of his hand.  “Andy’s asleep!”

He rose softly from the chair, and walking across the room on tiptoe, drew down the shade at the window through which the moonlight was streaming.  Then he returned to his seat, and remained gazing with half-closed eyes into the dropping embers.

I refilled my pipe and smoked in profound silence, wondering what would come next.  But nothing came next.  Mr. Jaffrey had fallen into so brown a study that, a quarter of an hour afterwards, when I wished him good-night and withdrew, I do not think he noticed my departure.