In early November, Sarah knew that she was pregnant. For a day after deciding that it was so, she felt an exhilaration, a soaring of soul she had never before in her life experienced. But on the second day she made herself think practically about it, and immediately began to doubt and speculate. She decided that she would have to talk with someone she could trust, of whom she might ask advice. But who was there? Edna was her closest friend, but this was not something they would be able to talk about. There was no other woman. Oddly enough, Lauretta, she thought, would have been the one to listen and advise her. After her initial delight in the “drama” of the dilemma, Lauretta would have settled down to think about it and would have given sensible advice. For all her romantic nature, she was practical and clear-thinking about everyone but herself. It could not be Nell. Certainly not Selma. Nor Lovey.

No woman then.

It must be Felix. His mind was his own; he did not think in tidy, closed boxes, nor speak in platitudes. She waited until after breakfast the next morning. After bathing and feeding him and making him comfortable for the day, Stella went downstairs with his dishes and bath water and generally stayed gossiping with the kitchen women for an hour or more.

Sarah found his door open, tapped on it as she entered, and then closed it behind her.

Felix closed his book. “Good morning, my dear.”

“Good morning, Uncle.” She went to the bed and kissed his cheek.

Glancing over her shoulder at the closed door he said, “Are we to have secrets?”

“Yes, if you please.”

“Sit down.” She drew a chair close to the bed. “I am flattered that you come to me.”

“Only you can advise me.”

He threw up his hand. “My dear Sarah! Please not. You have come to the wrong person. I am not qualified to advise anybody, and certainly no one as good and bright as you.”

“You must, Uncle.”

He sighed and looked at her intently.

“I’m going to have a child.”

He let a moment pass. “I am right, I trust, in believing you have always longed for children of your own?”

“Yes.”

“Well, then! Oh God. Yes. It may not be Leon’s. That’s what you mean, of course.”

“Not ‘may not.’ It cannot be his.”

He said slowly, “I had imagined you were not close in that way.”

“Not of my own wishing.”

“Oh?”

“I have no complaint of Leon—”