“You won’t.  If you do, I’ll fight you, so you needn’t worry on my account.  I think it’s all a silly convention that says a man in a temper mustn’t thump a woman!  If you want to thump me, do!  But you’ll probably get a much worse thumping than you give.”

He tried to be cheered by her, but could not.  After awhile, she said: 

“Besides, if you do get well here—­and you’re going to.  I don’t doubt that for a moment—­think how splendid it will be to know you’ve done it without the sort of restrictions, and treatments you’d get in a Home.  Doing it just by your own strength is great, Louis.”

He saw that, and was happier, but he could not break out of his morbid introspection.  Even after they had said good night and she was in the hinterland of sleep, he wakened her by sitting up and lighting a cigarette.

“Can’t you sleep?” she murmured drowsily.

“I’m thinking about you,” he said gloomily.  “Marcella, I was a cad to bring you out here into the backblocks, just because I wanted to escape temptation.  You need civilization just now—­you need all the comforts of civilization—­care and—­Oh the million things a woman needs.”

“Oh, Louis, do be quiet!” she said, “all I need at this moment is a good sleep.”

He lay down again for ten minutes.  Once more he started up, dragging the blanket right away from her.

“How can you expect me to sleep?  Marcella, what right had I to make you have a child?  We’ve no money.”

“They don’t cost anything,” she said wide-awake now.

He made a gesture of impatience.

“We’ve no home—­you’ve no attention.”

She sighed.

“Listen to me, Louis, and then, my dear, for ever hold your peace.  If the Lord, or whoever it is that’s responsible for babies, had meant them to make women invalids, they’d never have been invented at all.  Because there’s no real room in the world for invalids.  They’d have been grown on bushes, or produced by budding, wouldn’t they?  So just you forget it!  The baby is my affair.  It’s nothing to do with you, and I positively refuse to be fussed over.  I call it indecent to talk about ill-health.  It’s the one thing in life I’d put covers on and hide up.  You must just think you’ve been to a factory and ordered a baby, and they said, ’Yes, sir—­ready in six months from now, sir.’  And then you walk away and call again in six months!”

“Oh Lord!” he groaned, “why did I marry a kid?”

“You can talk about him as much as you like,” she went on calmly, “the finished article.  But I simply won’t have you fussing about the details of his manufacture, and all his trimmings.  And that’s final.”

“But he’s my child,” protested Louis.

“Not yet!  In six months’ time, perhaps.  But you’ve enough worries, real worries, without making them up.  There, dear heart, I don’t mean to be cross with you.  But you’re such an idiot, and I’m so sleepy.”