Lili’s baby was the center of an enormous manifestation of interest.
Xenophon Curry was simply wild, and wanted to do all sorts of reckless
things with it from the very first. Indeed, the impresario took such a
violent and paternal interest in the youngster that an outsider suddenly
coming upon a characteristic tableau would decide at once that the man
with the gay rings and the black toupee must be the baby’s father—or
at the very least its grandfather. One would scarcely think, at first
glance, of connecting Jerome with any phase of immediate ownership. It
only showed in his eyes. If he took the baby up in his arms (which wasn’t
very often) he held it so awkwardly as to make every one laugh.
The tiny boy became the company mascot. “They say a little baby often
brings good luck,” observed the superstitious impresario, his honest
black eyes very shiny and serious.
And naturally, if the baby was to be the company mascot, everybody in the
company wanted to have a hand in the baby’s affairs. All the women who
knew how to handle a needle at all began sewing every conceivable article
of wardrobe which could possibly fit an infant’s needs. No mother was
ever before so favoured!
Of course some of the garments turned out to be a little queer, because
opera singers aren’t necessarily authorities on baby’s clothes. But a
great deal of genuine affection and good will was sewed into them—even
the queerest.
The mascot was petted and pampered like a poodle. Its host of admirers
took turns holding it and walking with it and talking baby-talk to it. In
short, the mascot was treated like a little king.
Naturally the parents were very proud. As for Lili, she could never get
over this most prodigious novelty. “I just can’t believe it’s mine!” she
would exclaim. Jerome felt much the same way; yet when he voiced the
sentiment, Lili, remembering that wretched little soldier in Honolulu,
would always look vaguely guilty. How did she know, after all, whether
the baby _did_ belong to Jerome too?
However, of course no such dark uncertainties bothered Jerome. His
marriage could hardly be called better than a failure. But at least, to
him, this little son was a success.
He liked to drop down beside the cradle, his hands pressed together
between his knees, and just look. He couldn’t get enough of just gazing,
without saying anything at all. Sometimes Lili would make fun of his
silent devotion; she took the baby a great deal more sensibly than Jerome
did.
And yet, however sensibly, it was rather a fortunate thing that there
were so many eager and competing hands always ready to relieve her
of the burden of care; otherwise, it is to be feared, the happy and
beaming mother would too often have felt bored and miserable, being so
much tied down. Dear Lili, though she really loved the baby, in her own
happy-go-lucky way, was never cut out to be a mother.