To dine tete-a-tete with that fellow!

Gyp had passed the strangest morning in her life, so far.  Her baby fascinated her, also the tug of its lips, giving her the queerest sensation, almost sensual; a sort of meltedness, an infinite warmth, a desire to grip the little creature right into her—­which, of course, one must not do.  And yet, neither her sense of humour nor her sense of beauty were deceived.  It was a queer little affair with a tuft of black hair, in grace greatly inferior to a kitten.  Its tiny, pink, crisped fingers with their infinitesimal nails, its microscopic curly toes, and solemn black eyes—­when they showed, its inimitable stillness when it slept, its incredible vigour when it fed, were all, as it were, miraculous.  Withal, she had a feeling of gratitude to one that had not killed nor even hurt her so very desperately—­gratitude because she had succeeded, performed her part of mother perfectly—­the nurse had said so—­she, so distrustful of herself!  Instinctively she knew, too, that this was her baby, not his, going “to take after her,” as they called it.  How it succeeded in giving that impression she could not tell, unless it were the passivity, and dark eyes of the little creature.  Then from one till three they had slept together with perfect soundness and unanimity.  She awoke to find the nurse standing by the bed, looking as if she wanted to tell her something.

“Someone to see you, my dear.”

And Gyp thought:  ’He!  I can’t think quickly; I ought to think quickly—­I want to, but I can’t.’  Her face expressed this, for the nurse said at once: 

“I don’t think you’re quite up to it yet.”

Gyp answered: 

“Yes.  Only, not for five minutes, please.”

Her spirit had been very far away, she wanted time to get it back before she saw him—­time to know in some sort what she felt now; what this mite lying beside her had done for her and him.  The thought that it was his, too—­this tiny, helpless being—­seemed unreal.  No, it was not his!  He had not wanted it, and now that she had been through the torture it was hers, not his—­never his.  The memory of the night when she first yielded to the certainty that the child was coming, and he had come home drunk, swooped on her, and made her shrink and shudder and put her arm round her baby.  It had not made any difference.  Only—­Back came the old accusing thought, from which these last days she had been free:  ’But I married him—­I chose to marry him.  I can’t get out of that!’ And she felt as if she must cry out to the nurse:  “Keep him away; I don’t want to see him.  Oh, please, I’m tired.”  She bit the words back.  And presently, with a very faint smile, said: 

“Now, I’m ready.”