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 do, I suppose. But why the hell isn't the whole thing different? You don't ask for a kid; it just gets wished on you, and then you have a whole hell of a lot of trouble. What I'm kicking about is that it is necessary for so much to be done about it. Why can't babies come like—like flowers?"

Dot giggled. Eddie gave her a look of disgust mingled with contempt.

"I mean it," he said. "God's supposed to be at the head of the whole system. Why the hell doesn't he think up a way for babies to come without driving people damn near crazy?"

"I don't know, Eddie," said Dot, gravely. "Perhaps if there was no trouble there'd be too many babies."

"That can't be the reason," said Eddie. "God doesn't seem to think that there can be too many kids."

"That's true, too," said Dot as though she had just recalled her last conversation with God and was remembering what he had said on the subject.

Eddie turned on the radio set. The voice of a soprano filled the room. Neither of the Collinses thought it extraordinary for the set to be put in use during a discussion. Half the dramatic scenes enacted uptown are done to the accompaniment of Victrolas or radio sets.

"Gee," said Dot, "I wonder what my father would say if he knew I was going to have a baby."

"What could he say?" asked Eddie with far more seriousness than Dot's idle remark deserved.

"Oh, I don't know. I bet he'd be surprised."

"Why should he be surprised? You're married, and there's nothing wrong with either of us."

"I think I'll write him a letter and tell him."

"What for?"

"Don't you want me to?"

"I don't care what you do about it. He's your father."