THE OLD MAID
Charlotte looked her straight in the eyes. “I call my own baby my own baby.”
“Your own—? Take care—you’re hurting my wrists, Chatty!” Delia freed herself, forcing a smile. “Your own—?”
“My own little girl. The one that Jessamine and Cyrus—”
“Oh—” Delia Ralston gasped.
The two cousins sat silent, facing each other; but Delia looked away. It came over her with a shudder of repugnance that such things, even if they had to be said, should not have been spoken in her bedroom, so near the spotless nursery across the passage. Mechanically she smoothed the organ-like folds of her silk skirt, which her cousin’s embrace had tumbled. Then she looked again at Charlotte’s eyes, and her own melted.
“Oh, poor Chatty—my poor Chatty!” She held out her arms to her cousin.
