Before the summer was ended, however, a new twist of his life and
affairs started the mechanism of the professor's imagination again. It
was announced to him when he returned from summer school on a hot
afternoon. He dropped his portfolio on the parlour desk, one corner of
which still showed the claw-marks of the miscreant Samson, and sat down
with a comfortable sigh.
"Abednego." His wife seldom addressed him by his first name.
"Yes?"
"I--I--I want to tell you something."
"Yes?"
"Haven't you noticed any difference in me lately?"
He had never noticed a difference in his wife. When they reached old
age, he would still be unable to discern it. He shook his head and
looked at her with some apprehension. She was troubled. "What's the
matter?"
"I suppose you wouldn't--yet," she said. "But--well--I'm with child."
The professor folded his upper lip between his thumb and forefinger.
"With child? Pregnant? You mean--"
"I'm going to have a baby."
Soon after their marriage the timid notion of parenthood had escaped
them. They had, in fact, avoided its mechanics except on those rare
evenings when tranquillity and the reproductive urge conspired to imbue
him with courage and her with sinfulness. Nothing came of that
infrequent union. They never expected anything.