"Fidelia," he said. "Here is the matter upon which I have come this morning. I might have come about it before; probably I should have but now I can put it off no longer. David and you have been married for three years, for more than three years. You have no children, Fidelia. Is it because God has forbidden them?"
"No," answered Fidelia.
"You do, then."
"Yes," said Fidelia.
"So I was sure; I was sure," he repeated.
Fidelia caught breath and leaned toward him and suddenly she was pale. "You mean—David told you?"
"No; David would not discuss it with me. But I know my son; I know he would want a child, at least."
"Yes," said Fidelia. "Yes."
"Why don't you?"
"I don't, father Herrick!" she cried quickly and piteously.
"Why not?" he pursued her. "Because of this?" he gestured. "Because you prefer this, you live for this—this—"
His hand was going again and for a second time it accused objects, her painted chairs and the Japanese tray, her piano and the gay glasses; then it came to a stop at the door of the bedroom.
"No; no; no; no!" Fidelia cried pitifully; and he ceased. He had never seen her pitiful before and it bewildered him and made him less certain. He said: "Fidelia, you want to please my son?"
"Of course, father!"
