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They talked of the things to be done--the telegram to her family, the announcement cards, the eight dollars a week to the colored maid to clean the house and cook breakfast and dinner while she was in the hospital, and finally a name for the boy. "We'll name him Nicholas, junior," Mabel said, "and we'll give him Rowley for a middle name. That'll please my dad."

"All right," Nicholas agreed. It was certainly the conventional, the expected name. He took his watch from his trousers pocket.

"What time is it?" she asked.

"Eight-forty."

"Then you'd better get down to the Department," she suggested, accurately reading his thought. Nicholas had not been late to work in fourteen years. It was something of a record in the European Division. It was his only distinction, and it would distress him to see it shattered.

"You're sure you'll be all right? I'll stay if you want me to."

"Of course I'm all right. Anyway, the doctor is coming to look at me again at ten, and then you can come back at noon."