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 clination toward obesity. He was still under forty, but he was not the type of man who makes a woman yearn for a more elderly doctor. He was pleasant, not formidably professional, and very conscientious. He had a little boy of his own. Dot found that out at once.

Dr. Stewart did not seem willing to base his diagnosis on Dot's symptoms alone. He asked for a sheet. Wonderingly Dot brought him one that was fresh from the laundry. Dr. Stewart told her the position he wished her to take, lying crosswise on the bed. An examination followed, in which the sheet was used solely for the psychological effect it would have on Dot. One couldn't feel exposed with yards of sheet billowing about one. She thought of Dr. Griegman's crude professional manner.

At length Dr. Stewart stood up straight and said: "Well, you're going to have a baby."

It didn't seem the same as when Griegman had verified her suspicions. In Dr. Stewart's words lay congratulations, respect, and a hint of forthcoming glory. A sudden mist of terrifying, heart-bursting happiness descended on Dot. A baby. It suddenly seemed new and very, very wonderful. She wished she could run to Eddie and say: "What do you think, darling, we're going to have a baby!"

Dr. Stewart had returned to the living-room and was awaiting her there. He was sitting in Eddie's chair, smoking comfortably.

Dot came and sat on the couch. She wanted to ask him a great many questions, but she didn't know where to start. Presently he began to speak. He told her about conception, of which she had only the vaguest idea. He described what the child was like now, how it would be a month later. He traced the little life through the months till it would lie, lobster-red and squinty-eyed—but beautiful to its mother—in an ivory-white bassinet.