Helena Richie stopped laughing; she pulled off her other glove and
looked down at her white hands. "Well, yes, I'm lonely. But--I don't
like children, Dr. King."

"You don't?" he said blankly, and in his surprise he sat down again.
"Oh, I'm sure that's only because you don't know them. If you had ever
known a child--"

"I have," Mrs. Richie said, "one." Her voice was bleak; the gayety had
dropped out of it; for an instant she looked old. William King
understood.

"It died?"

She nodded. She began to pull her gloves on again, smoothing down each
finger carefully and not looking at him.

"A little girl?"

"Boy." She turned her face away, but he saw her chin tremble. There
was a moment's silence; then the doctor said with curious harshness.

"Well, anyhow, you know what it means to have owned your own."

"Better not have known!"

"I can't feel that. But perhaps I don't understand."

"You don't understand." Her head, with its two soft braids wound