who asked for pennies and was proud of his Daddy. Still, some women died bringing the little fellows here. Oh, God, why was it so hard? Why did a guy have to see the picture of Dottie cold and white beside a vision of a kid who'd be called Junior? Oh, it was her battle. He couldn't help, and she was so little and scared-looking. She seemed to think that he was sore about something. He wished that he could explain what he felt. If he could only tell her just why he kept quiet. Words. He needed words again. And well-chosen, capable words are scarce, north of Central Park.
The bell rang. Eddie got up and went to the door. Dot raised herself to a sitting position and endeavored to look less sick-hearted.
Eddie opened the door. Edna Driggs stood outside.
"Oh," said Eddie, and leaving the door open, walked back to his chair.
Edna closed the door behind her and came into the living-room.
"Hello," she said, and seeing Dot swathed in a blanket, added quickly: "What's the matter?"
"Nothing. Just lying down."
Edna sat down on the couch beside Dot. "I was worried about you," she said. "It's nearly two weeks since I heard from you."
Dot smiled a smile, sadly lacking in gayety. "Oh, you'd have heard from me," she said, "only I didn't think you'd be much help."
"What's the matter?"
"I'm pregnant."
"Well, what do you want help for?"
Eddie had recovered his magazine and had apparently discovered an intensely interesting article. His head was bent low over the book, and he seemed utterly oblivious of the conversation between the two women.
