"Didn't I tell you? He knows."
"He has such fuzzy pink hair!" said Cort, rubbing it the wrong way. "Do
you think it will stay pink?"
"You sha'n't be godfather to my son if you say another word, Cortland.
Here, nurse, take him. They sha'n't abuse him any longer." She pressed
her lips rapturously against his rosy cheek and released him. Mrs.
Rumsen gazed through her lorgnon, while the infant, with a cry of
delight, pulled the glasses from the General's nose.
"No respect for age! None at all!" said Mrs. Rumsen.
After a while they all went away--Rita Cheyne to her post-graduate
pupil, Mrs. Rumsen to her brougham, and Cort and his father to the walk
downtown, leaving Camilla and Jeff sitting at the fireside alone. One
armchair was big enough for them both. She sat on his knees and leaned
back against him, close in the shelter of his arms.
"You didn't want to stay out to dinner, did you, Jeff?" she asked.
"Oh, yes," he said, "of course I did. I'm very fond of dining out."
She laughed contentedly. They had dined out only once this winter, and
that was at his father's house. There was a long silence.
"Poor Rita," she sighed at last, "what's to become of her? She's not
really happy, Jeff. I sometimes think----" she paused.
"What?"
"That she still thinks of you."