Man has an odd trick of falling in love with the last kind of woman you would expect him to, the very antithesis of the ideal he has previously formulated to himself, and then of expecting her, after matrimony, suddenly to change her whole individuality—­the very individuality which attracted him in the first instance—­and conform to his preconceived notions of what a wife ought to he.

It is illogical, of course, with that gloriously pig-headed illogicalness not infrequently to be found in the supposedly logical sex, and it would be laughable were it not that it so often ends in tragedy.

So that Roger was quite genuinely dumbfounded at Nan’s heterodox pronouncement on the relative values of music and babies.

A baby was not in the least an object of absorbing interest to her.  It cried out of tune and made ear-piercing noises that were not included in even the most modern of compositions.  Moreover, she was not by nature of the maternal type of woman, to whom marriage is but the beautiful path which leads to motherhood.  She was essentially one of the lovers of the world.  Had she married her mate, she would have demanded nothing more of life, though, if a child had been born of such mating, it would have seemed to her so beautiful and sure a link, so blent with love itself, that her arms would have opened to receive it.

But of all these intricacies of the feminine heart and mind Roger was sublimely ignorant.  So he chided her, still with that same unwonted gentleness which the thought of fatherhood sometimes brings to men of strong and violent temper.

“That’s all nonsense, you know, sweetheart.  And some day . . . when there’s a small son to be thought about and planned for and loved, you’ll find that what I say is true.”

“It might chance to be a small daughter,” suggested Nan snubbily, and Roger’s face fell a little.  “So, meanwhile, as I haven’t a baby and I have a concerto, come along and listen to it.”

He nodded and followed her into the West Parlour.  A cheerful fire was blazing on the hearth, a big lounge chair drawn up invitingly beside it, while close at hand stood a small table with pipe, tobacco pouch, and matches lying on it in readiness.

Roger smiled at the careful arrangement.

“What a thoughtful child it’s becoming!” he commented, taking up his pipe.

“Well, you can listen to music much better if you’re really comfy,” said Nan.  “Sit down and light your pipe—­there, I’ll light it for you when you’ve finished squashing the ’baccy down into it.”

Roger dropped leisurely into the big chair, filled and lit his pipe, and when it was drawing well, stretched out his legs to the logs’ warm glow with a sigh of contentment.

“Now, fire away, sweetheart,” he said.  “I’m all attention.”

She looked across at him, feeling for the first time a little anxious and uncertain of the success of her plan.