And yet, neither her sense of humour nor her sense of
beauty were deceived. It was a queer little affair with a tuft of black
hair, in grace greatly inferior to a kitten. Its tiny, pink, crisped
fingers with their infinitesimal nails, its microscopic curly toes, and
solemn black eyes--when they showed, its inimitable stillness when
it slept, its incredible vigour when it fed, were all, as it were,
miraculous. Withal, she had a feeling of gratitude to one that had not
killed nor even hurt her so very desperately--gratitude because she had
succeeded, performed her part of mother perfectly--the nurse had said
so--she, so distrustful of herself! Instinctively she knew, too, that
this was HER baby, not his, going "to take after her," as they called
it. How it succeeded in giving that impression she could not tell,
unless it were the passivity, and dark eyes of the little creature. Then
from one till three they had slept together with perfect soundness and
unanimity. She awoke to find the nurse standing by the bed, looking as
if she wanted to tell her something.
"Someone to see you, my dear."
And Gyp thought: 'He! I can't think quickly; I ought to think quickly--I
want to, but I can't.' Her face expressed this, for the nurse said at
once:
"I don't think you're quite up to it yet."
Gyp answered:
"Yes. Only, not for five minutes, please.
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