Steve Hanks Reflecting painting

was past bearing—first Sister Kemp, now Mr. Benwell. I felt stifled in this pastry-cook’s atmosphere. “I’ve come to say good-bye,” I said. “I’m going back to the country to see about my house.”
“I’m so glad. It’s lovely for you. I’m coming to see it as soon as I’m better.”
She did not want me, I thought; Humboldt’s Gibbon and I had done our part. “You’ll be my first guest,” I said.
“Yes. Quite soon.”
Sister Kemp went with me to the landing.
“Now,” she said, “come and see something very precious.”
There was a cradle in Roger’s dressing room, made of white stuff and ribbons, and a baby in it.
“Isn’t he a fine big man?”
“Magnificent,” I said, “and very sweet ... Kempy.”