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."
They said good night once more, and she was falling asleep when he
pulled her hair gently. He was frowning, with deep lines on his
forehead.
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