“She’s not well, Leo.  That terrible neuralgia—­that’s why she needs me so.”

“Nonsense!  She hasn’t had a spell for weeks.  That’s Louis’ great brag, that he’s curing her.  Oh, Alma, Alma, that’s not a reason; that’s an excuse!”

“Leo—­you don’t understand.”

“I’m afraid I—­don’t,” he said, looking at her with a sudden intensity that startled her with a quick suspicion of his suspicions, but then he smiled.

“Alma!” he said, “Alma!”

Misery made her dumb.

“Why, don’t you know, dear, that your mother is better able to take care of herself than you are?  She’s bigger and stronger.  You—­you’re a little white flower, that I want to wear on my heart.”

“Leo—­give me time.  Let me think.”

“A thousand thinks, Alma, but I love you.  I love you and want so terribly for you to love me back.”

“I—­do.”

“Then tell me with kisses.”

Again she pressed him to arm’s length.

“Please, Leo!  Not yet.  Let me think.  Just one day.  To-morrow.”

“No, no!  Now!”

“To-morrow.”

“When?”

“Evening.”

“No, morning.”

“All right, Leo—­to-morrow morning—­”

“I’ll sit up all night and count every second in every minute and every minute in every hour.”

She put up her soft little fingers to his lips.

“Dear boy,” she said.

And then they kissed, and after a little swoon to his nearness she struggled like a caught bird and a guilty one.

“Please go, Leo,” she said.  “Leave me alone—­”

“Little mamma-baby sweetheart,” he said.  “I’ll build you a nest right next to hers.  Good night, little white flower.  I’ll be waiting, and remember, counting every second of every minute and every minute of every hour.”

For a long time she remained where he had left her, forward on the pink divan, her head with a listening look to it, as if waiting an answer for the prayers that she sent up.

* * * * *

At two o’clock that morning, by what intuition she would never know, and with such leverage that she landed out of bed plump on her two feet, Alma, with all her faculties into trace like fire horses, sprang out of sleep.

It was a matter of twenty steps across the hall.  In the white-tiled Roman bathroom, the muddy circles suddenly out and angry beneath her eyes, her mother was standing before one of the full-length mirrors—­snickering.

There was a fresh little grave on the inside of her right forearm.

* * * * *

Sometimes in the weeks that followed a sense of the miracle of what was happening would clutch at Alma’s throat like a fear.

Louis did not know.

That the old neuralgic recurrences were more frequent again, yes.  Already plans for a summer trip abroad, on a curative mission bent, were taking shape.  There was a famous nerve specialist, the one who had worked such wonders on his mother’s cruelly rheumatic limbs, reassuringly foremost in his mind.