HEN the baby was three weeks old they said that Omi could come down-stairs for an hour or two in the afternoon. So I went home early and carried her down. She laughed so much that I had to laugh, too.
“Why!” she said. “Here's my old laughing Jimmy come back again! I thought I'd lost him.”
I hadn't been laughing very much lately; and I had my reasons; but I didn't want to talk about them. So I pretended to be out of breath, and carried her to the armchair and tucked her up in a rug, and made her lie against the pillows. Then I fetched another chair, and sat beside her, and tried to change the subject.
“It's nice to have you down again, Omi,” I told her.
“Yes Why have you given up laughing, Jimmy?”
“So you've noticed,” I said slowly. I could see that it was no use trying to put her off. It never is.
“Of course!” She nodded. “What is it?”
“Another bad habit!” I explained. “You see, I got into rather a way of worrying—before. I wouldn't let you see that I worried,
Omi looked up at me and smiled.
“I saw, Jimmy,” she stated.
“Yes, I suppose you did. I thought, if I pretended to be cheerful, it would cheer you up a bit.”
“It did.” Omi held out her hand, and I squeezed it. “And I thought it would cheer you up a bit, if I pretended that I didn't see! Aren't we dreadful pretenders, Jimmy?”
She laughed again. She didn't seem to have altered a bit.
“I don't seem to be a success as a pretender,” I owned. “You always see through me.”
“Yes. So you may as well tell me at once. What is it?”
“I don't know”
“Jimmy!” She shook her head at me. “You do.”
“I don't know how to put it, I mean.”
“No,” she contradicted, “you mean that you don't know how to avoid 'putting it.' It's no use bothering about that, because I'm going to make you tell me the truth. And now you can do it!”
“Well,” I said, “it's like this: You see, you weren't just an ordinary wife, Omi. You were a—a sort of chum, too. We liked the same things and the same people, and making fun of everything, and going out together; and things seem different when you have a chum to do them with; and I hadn't any chum when she was up-stairs; and so I didn't feel like laughing; and that's all.”
“And now she's down-stairs,” said Omi; “and that's all. But you aren't even smiling. That isn't a smile. It's only a grimace. What is it?”
“Nothing,” I told her. She didn't contradict me, but watched me with her finger on her cheek.
“Baby is a funny little creature,” she remarked, at last.
“He's a funny little creature,” I agreed.
“Do you think he's like you?” she inquired.
“No,” I said emphatically. “I don't.”
“Nurse says he is.”
“They always do.”
“Mrs. Harraden thinks so, too; and you always say that she's so sensible.”
“You have taken away her reputation in a breath.”
“I think he's like you. But Mrs. Villiers says he's like me.”
“Good gracious, no!” I cried energetically. “Fancy comparing a baby—or anything—to Omi!”
“Who do you think he's like?”
“He's more like a monkey than anything,” I growled.
“Yes!” Omi laughed. “Isn't he? Very like a monkey.” I was rather taken aback at this. I had expected her to be indignant.
“He's not more like a monkey than other babies,” I qualified.
“Not so much,” she said. “Not nearly so much. He's very good-looking—for a baby; and he's got your nose; and he takes a lot of notice, and seems to know people. I'm sure he likes holding my finger better than anybody's!”
“And you like holding his finger better than anybody's,” I told her.
Omi selected one of my fingers, and held it tightly.
“Now I see,” she cried. “You're jealous!”
“No-o,” I corrected. “Not exactly jealous. I do feel a bit envious—sometimes; but that is beastly of me; and I'll soon get over it.”
“There's nothing to get over, Jimmy; but I ought to like him, too.”
“I want you to like him just as much as other mothers like their babies.”
“Oh?” Omi clasped her hands. “But other mothers can't love their baby so much as I love mine—yours! I may love him, mayn't I, Jimmy?”
“Of course you may.”
“And you will, won't you?”
“I dare say I shall get to like the little sleepy bundle, when he's bigger.”
“You like him now, Jimmy,” she insisted.
“Yes, Well, I suppose I do. I do, then.”
“So you can't be jealous of me liking him.”
“I'm not jealous, Omi. I—I don't know how to explain what I mean exactly.”
Omi leaned her head against my shoulder, and didn't say anything.
“It's two troubles in one,” I confessed. “The first is that you won't be able to do all the things we used to do together, on account