The girl looked up. She did not answer for a moment. There came a
hardening of the mouth before she spoke.

"A baby," she said. "Oh, it was my own fault," she continued. "I wanted
it. It was all the talk at the time. You don't remember. Our right to
children. No woman complete without one. Maternity, woman's kingdom.
All that sort of thing. As if the storks brought them. Don't suppose it
made any real difference; but it just helped me to pretend that it was
something pretty and high-class. 'Overmastering passion' used to be the
explanation, before that. I guess it's all much of a muchness: just
natural instinct."

The restaurant had been steadily emptying. Monsieur Gustav and his ample-
bosomed wife were seated at a distant table, eating their own dinner.

"Why couldn't you have married?" asked Joan.

The girl shrugged her shoulders. "Who was there for me to marry?" she
answered. "The men who wanted me: clerks, young tradesmen, down at
home--I wasn't taking any of that lot. And the men I might have fancied
were all of them too poor. There was one student. He's got on since.
Easy enough for him to talk about waiting. Meanwhile. Well, it's like
somebody suggesting dinner to you the day after to-morrow. All right
enough, if you're not troubled with an appetite."

The waiter came to clear the table. They were almost the last customers
left. The man's tone and manner jarred upon Joan. She had not noticed
it before. Joan ordered coffee and the girl, exchanging a joke with the
waiter, added a liqueur.