Gladys sat down in the chair nearest her and Margaret collapsed back onto the sofa. “Marriage, maybe. Maybe.” She held her hand up to signal stop. “Which is more of a concession than you’ve ever gotten from me. Or ever will. But babies, no. I’ll leave that to the Dotties and Margarets of the world.”

“That’s progress, at least.”

She shrugged. “For someone who believes that’s the natural course of life, then perhaps. Whatever you want to call it.”

They glanced over at George, who resembled a Coney Island pretzel. Margaret recalled a conversation they’d had while they were waiting for news.

“Speaking of marriage and the natural progression of things, he told me while we were waiting that he wants to marry Dottie.”

“That’s nothing new.”

Margaret leaned over the arm of the chair. “No, really. It’s more than words. He bought a ring and everything. Spared no expense on a top-tier diamond—wait till you see it. A half-carat round, set in a gold band with beveled edges. I know he could have afforded an even more dazzling setting, but he had the discretion to know that her head isn’t turned by such things.”

Margaret smiled at the thought.

“He…he asked for my permission,” she continued.

She wouldn’t have thought anything could surprise Gladys, but her eyes widened and then narrowed. “What did you say?”

Margaret folded her arms and sat back in the chair, remembering how kind and sincere George seemed when he spoke to her. About how much he’d loved John and could never replace him. How he knew he’d always be second in Dottie’s heart. But that even so, he wanted to take care of her—and the baby—for the rest of his life. “I told him that the only thing that would make me happier is hearing that mother and baby came out of the delivery good and healthy.”

“What do you think Dottie will say?”

Margaret shrugged. “I don’t know. She and John—there are few people who get to have what they had. But George—she would never have to work again. Or worry about her parents turning her out. It makes a certain kind of sense.”

“You don’t think she’d marry him just for that, though, would she? Haven’t women prostituted themselves for enough centuries just for name and security?”

“Gladys! It’s not like that for her and you know it.”

“You’re right. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it that way. Maybe deep down I have a little romantic bone that wants to see her marry for love.”

“It’s your stapes.”

“My what?”

“Your stapes. It was one of the words in the New York Times and I haven’t gotten to use it yet. It’s your middle-ear bone. The smallest bone in the human body. That’s your tiny little-engine-that-could romantic bone.”