THREE weeks before, the baby had arrived. Patricia had been dreading it for so long that after the ordeal was over life seemed wonderful, all lighted up. She actually had to pretend to be annoyed with the innumerable details which invariably go wrong during exciting periods, like the maid neglecting things at home, Harry forgetting to notify important people, and the announcements her mother ordered turning out too icky for words. Now, today, home with a dear little nurse for the baby, so Patricia only had the good of him—what fun! What joy! As she said to Harry, “It sounds silly, but if only everyone would see how remarkable just living is, they wouldn’t fight and kill and—oh, the war!” she added, making herself frown.
“Don’t think of it, Patsy,” Harry said, smoothing her cheek with the back of his hand. “Don’t think of anything lousy now.”
As if she could! Dressed up in a new broderie-anglaise negligee which she had bought thinking she would never again be thin enough to wear it, Patricia bent over the lacy bassinet, peering at her little son.
Her mother, Mrs. Talcott, bending from the other side, said, “This is the first good look I’ve had at him. In that hospital they just waved him at you through the glass as though he were some kind of flag.”
“I know,” Patricia said. “Everyone complained. Harry keeps sneaking into the baby’s room to get his full of him and I don’t feel as though I knew his face yet.” She bent lower. “Oh look, Mother. He’s smiling in his sleep!”
“Gas,” responded Mrs. Talcott complacently. “Everyone thinks it’s a smile.”
“This one is. But look”—she grabbed her mother’s arm—”he’s got dimples! Mother, he’s got my dimples!” It seemed such a special gift, such a premium, that Patricia couldn’t stand still. She went to the mirror and smiled at herself. There were her two dimples. She smiled again, nodding at her image. Her rosy mouth opened slightly in awe and she noted contentedly how lovely she looked. “I wonder,” said Patricia, not really caring, “whom I got mine from.”
“Now, Pat,” said Mrs. Talcott, coming behind her daughter, “you’ve been up too long. You ought to lie down and rest. What did you say, dear?”
“I said I wondered whom I got mine from. My dimples, I mean.”
“Why, from me,” said Mrs. Talcott casually.
Patricia jerked her head up and stared at her mother’s face. She saw that the two things she had thought of, without really thinking of them, as lines had been dimples. She noticed the mouth that had tightened and narrowed, the lower jaw that had drawn back. She saw for once, vividly, the meagreness of the whole face. “Oh, Mother!” she cried, and burst into tears.
For a minute Mrs. Talcott didn’t understand. “Moods,” she thought as she slipped her arm around her daughter’s shoulder. “She’s not strong yet and she overdoes.” But then she knew. “There, there, my darling,” she whispered, and her arm tightened. “It’s not so bad. It’s not so bad, my darling.” ♦
