“The scoundrel! We’ll make him marry you and save your name from being dragged in the mud.”
“No—no, Doctor, you don’t understand. We’ve done nothing wrong, and if we have I’m as much to blame as Carl. Please don’t say anything about this until I see him. …”
She telephoned Carl, who came over to her house at once. She greeted him happily, the light of love yet shining in her face.
“Carl,” she cried as soon as he entered, “I’m going to have a baby!”
“You’re what?”
“I’m going to have a baby— Dr. Adams told me so this afternoon—I’m so happy,” she ended, a puzzled tone creeping into her voice.
“Did he ask you who was the father?”
“Yes, of course he did.”
“Who did you tell him?”
“Why, you, of course.”
He turned on her roughly.
“You little fool, what did you want to do that for?”
She gazed at him in dismay. She had expected a happiness equal to her own. Instead Carl glared at her as though he wanted to spring at her throat. With his anger was mingled fear—humiliation—she knew not what emotions passed rapidly over his countenance.
“Don’t you tell anybody else,” he demanded. “And tomorrow I’ll take you to a doctor who’ll fix you up—”