“I have to be rather careful what I say,”
she told him, “as there’s another lady
here whose husband’s in the Indian Civil.”
“I wouldn’t let that disturb me if I were
you,” said Philip. “I’m convinced
that her husband and yours went out on the same boat.”
“What boat?” she asked innocently.
“The Flying Dutchman.”
Mildred was safely delivered of a daughter, and when
Philip was allowed to see her the child was lying
by her side. Mildred was very weak, but relieved
that everything was over. She showed him the baby,
and herself looked at it curiously.
“It’s a funny-looking little thing, isn’t
it? I can’t believe it’s mine.”
It was red and wrinkled and odd. Philip smiled
when he looked at it. He did not quite know what
to say; and it embarrassed him because the nurse who
owned the house was standing by his side; and he felt
by the way she was looking at him that, disbelieving
Mildred’s complicated story, she thought he
was the father.
“What are you going to call her?” asked
Philip.
“I can’t make up my mind if I shall call
her Madeleine or Cecilia.”
The nurse left them alone for a few minutes, and Philip
bent down and kissed Mildred on the mouth.
“I’m so glad it’s all over happily,
darling.”
She put her thin arms round his neck.
“You have been a brick to me, Phil dear.”
“Now I feel that you’re mine at last.
I’ve waited so long for you, my dear.”
They heard the nurse at the door, and Philip hurriedly
got up. The nurse entered. There was a slight
smile on her lips.
Three weeks later Philip saw Mildred and her baby
off to Brighton. She had made a quick recovery
and looked better than he had ever seen her. She
was going to a boarding-house where she had spent
a couple of weekends with Emil Miller, and had written
to say that her husband was obliged to go to Germany
on business and she was coming down with her baby.
She got pleasure out of the stories she invented,
and she showed a certain fertility of invention in
the working out of the details. Mildred proposed
to find in Brighton some woman who would be willing
to take charge of the baby. Philip was startled
at the callousness with which she insisted on getting
rid of it so soon, but she argued with common sense
that the poor child had much better be put somewhere
before it grew used to her. Philip had expected
the maternal instinct to make itself felt when she
had had the baby two or three weeks and had counted
on this to help him persuade her to keep it; but nothing
of the sort occurred. Mildred was not unkind
to her baby; she did all that was necessary; it amused
her sometimes, and she talked about it a good deal;
but at heart she was indifferent to it. She could
not look upon it as part of herself. She fancied
it resembled its father already. She was continually
wondering how she would manage when it grew older;
and she was exasperated with herself for being such
a fool as to have it at all.
