"June in Paris--"
other Junes--"experiments"--no children. Again he felt he must have that
talk. But, good Lord, how he dreaded it.
The house was almost ready now, dismantled and made new and strange. It was
the night before the wedding. Laura was taking her supper in bed. What was
he going to say to her? He ate his dinner silently. At last he rose with
grim resolution.
"I think I'll go up and see her," he said. Deborah quickly glanced at him.
"What for?" she asked.
"Oh, I just want to talk to her--"
"Don't stay long," she admonished him. "I've a masseuse coming at nine
o'clock to get the child in condition to rest. Her nerves are rather tense,
you know."
"How about mine?" he said to himself as he started upstairs. "Never mind,
I've got to tackle it."
Laura saw what he meant to say the moment that he entered the room, and the
tightening of her features made it all the harder for Roger to think
clearly, to remember the grave, kind, fatherly things which he had intended
to tell her.
"I don't want to talk of the wedding, child, but of what's coming after
that--between you and this man--all your life." He stopped short, with his
heart in his mouth, for although he did not look at her he had a quick
sensation as though he had struck her in the face.
"Isn't this rather late to speak about that? Just now? When I'm nervous
enough as it is?"
"I know, I know." He spoke hurriedly, humbly.
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