Now that the hour of meeting approached she grew nervous.  Unlike Zora, she had not inherited her father’s fearlessness and joy of battle.  The touch of adventurous spirit which she had received from him had been her undoing, as it had led her into temptation which the gentle, weak character derived from her mother had been powerless to resist.  All her life she had been afraid of Zora, subdued by her splendid vitality, humbled before her more generous accomplishment.  And now she was to fight for her honor and her child’s and at the same time for the tender chivalry of the odd, beloved creature that was her husband.  She armed herself with woman’s weapons, and put on a brave face, though her heart thumped like some devilish machine, racking her mercilessly.

The bell rang.  She bent over the boy asleep in the bassinette and gave a mother’s touch or two to the tiny coverlet.  She heard the flat door open and Zora’s rich voice inquire for Mrs. Dix.  Then Zora, splendid, deep bosomed, glowing with color, bringing with her a perfume of furs and violets, sailed into the room and took her into her arms.  Emmy felt fluffy and insignificant.

“How well you’re looking, dear.  I declare you are prettier than ever.  You’ve filled out.  I didn’t come the first thing this morning as I wanted to, because I knew you would find everything topsy-turvy in the flat.  Septimus is a dear, but I haven’t much faith in his domestic capabilities.”

“The flat was in perfect order,” said Emmy.  “Even that bunch of roses in a jar.”

“Did he remember to put in the water?”

Zora laughed, meaning to be kind and generous, to make it evident to Emmy that she had not come as a violent partisan of Septimus, and to lay a pleasant, familiar foundation for the discussion in prospect.  But Emmy resented the note of disparagement.

“Of course he did,” she said shortly.

Zora flew to the bassinette and glowed womanlike over the baby.  A beautiful child, one to be proud of indeed.  Why hadn’t Emmy dear proclaimed his uniqueness in the world of infants?  From the references in her letters he might have been the ordinary baby of every cradle.

“Oh, you ought to be such a happy woman!” she cried, taking off her furs and throwing them over the back of a chair.  “Such a happy woman!”

An involuntary sigh shook her.  The first words had been intended to convey a gentle reproof; nature had compelled the reiteration on her own account.

“I’m happy enough,” said Emmy.

“I wish you could say that with more conviction, dear.  ‘Happy enough’ generally means ‘pretty miserable.’  Why should you be miserable?”

“I’m not.  I have more happiness than I deserve.  I don’t deserve much.”

Zora put her arm round her sister’s waist.

“Never mind, dear.  We’ll try to make you happier.”

Emmy submitted to the caress for a while and then freed herself gently.  She did not reply.  Not all the trying of Zora and all the Ladies Bountiful of Christendom could give her her heart’s desire.  Besides, Zora, with her large air of smiling dea ex machina was hopelessly out of tone with her mood.  She picked up the furs.