o 3b3e7475144cf77c

Lanny didn't tell so much; nor was it necessary. Monsieur Fouc hard had heard the surgeon

call him by name, and was aware who this elegant young American must be. He had read about

Irma Barnes, and began to talk as if he were an old friend of the family, indeed as if he were about

to take charge of Irma's convalescence and the nursing of her infant. Lanny, who had grown up

in France, knew that it wasn't worth while to take offense; much better to be human. They would

set up a sort of temporary association, a League of Husbands in Labor. Others might be joining

them before the night was over.

X

The accoucheuse of Madame Fouchard arrived, a Frenchwoman; she succeeded in persuading

the husband that it would be a long time before the blessed event could take place, so that

gentleman bade his fellow league-member a sentimental farewell. Lanny answered a call from

his mother and reported on the situation; after pacing the floor some more, he sat down and tried

to put his mind upon an account of a visit to the hanging monasteries of Greece. He had seen

them as a boy, but now wouldn't have cared if all the monks had been hanged along with the

monasteries. He simply couldn't believe that a normal delivery could take so long a time. He

rang the bell and had a session with the night head nurse, only to find that she had learned the

formulas. "Tout va bien, monsieur. Soyez tranquille."

Lanny was really glad when the door opened and a lady was escorted in, obviously in that

condition in which ladies enter such places. With her came a French gentleman with a dark

brown silky beard; Lanny recognized him as a piano-teacher well known in Cannes. The lady

was turned over to the nurse's care, and the gentleman became at once a member of Lanny's

league. Inasmuch as Lanny was a pianist himself, and had a brother-in-law who was a violin

virtuoso, the two might have talked a lot of shop; but no, they preferred to tell each other how

long they had been married, and how old their wives were, and how they felt and how their

wives felt. This confrontation with nature in the raw had reduced them to the lowest common

denominator of humanity. Art, science, and culture no longer existed; only bodies, blood, and

babies.

Lanny would listen for a while, and then he would cease to hear what the bearded Frenchman

was saying. Lanny was walking up and down the floor of the reception-room, with beads of

perspiration standing oat upon his forehead. Oh, God, this surely couldn't be right! Something

dreadful must be happening in that delivery-room, some of those things which the

encyclopedia told about: a failure of the mother's heart, the breaking of the "waters," or one of

those irregular presentations which occur in varying percentages of cases. Manifestly, if the

accoucheur had encountered trouble, he wouldn't come running out to tell the expectant

father; he'd be busy, and so would the nurses. Only when it was all over would anyone break

the tragic news; and then Lanny would never be able to forgive himself.

A serious defect in the practical arrangements of this hospice de la misere! There ought to be

some system, a telephone in the delivery-room, a bulletin board, a set of signals! It is a problem

which calls for collective solution; the opening of a paternity hospital, a place for expectant

fathers, where they may receive proper care! Nurses will have some time for them. Attendants

will consider their feelings, and give them information—perhaps lectures on the subject of

obstetrics, especially prepared for sensitive minds, with the abnormalities omitted or played

down. There will be soft music, perhaps motion pictures; above all there will be news, plenty of

it, prompt and dependable. Perhaps a place like a broker's office, where a "Translux" gives the

market figures on a screen.

Every time Lanny came near the wall with the bell-button he wanted to press it and demand

exact information as to the condition of his beloved wife. Every time the French music-teacher

asked him a question it was harder to conceal the fact that he wasn't listening. A damnable

thing! Put the blame wherever you chose, on nature or on human incompetence, the fact

remained that this wife whom he loved so tenderly, with so much pity, must be in agony, she

must be completely exhausted. Something ought to be done! Here it was getting on toward

midnight—Lanny looked at his wristwatch and saw that three minutes had passed since he had

looked the last time; it was only twenty-two minutes to eleven— but that was bad enough—

some thirteen hours since the labor pains had begun, and they had told him it was time to leave

her to her fate. Damn it—

XI

A door of the room opened, and there was a nurse. Lanny took one glance, and saw that she

was different from any nurse he had seen thus far. She was smiling, yes, actually beaming with