"Why, Alma!" And he sat down, too, rather palely, at the remote end of
the divan.

"You--I--mustn't!" she said, frantic to keep her lips from twisting, her
little lacy fribble of a handkerchief a mere string from winding.

"Mustn't what?"

"Mustn't," was all she could repeat and not weep her words.

"Won't--I--do?"

"It's--mamma."

"What?"

"Her."

"Her what, my little white buttonhole carnation?"

"You see--I--She's all alone."

"You adorable, she's got a brand-new husky husband."

"No--you don't--understand."

Then, on a thunderclap of inspiration, hitting his knee:

"I have it. Mamma-baby! That's it. My girlie is a cry-baby, mamma-baby!"