Sara was enduring most of the classic symptoms of typical pregnancy,
and was enjoying Dr. Sansome's treatment hugely. She guzzled the
alkaline-producing fruit juices, fortified with carefully rationed
dribbles of gin. She nibbled contentedly at the sweets which the
Frenchman supplied anonymously. And she raised merry hell because we
refused to operate.

After two weeks, she threatened to leave. I was paged over the P. A.
and got to her room in time to catch her trying to zip up her skirt.

She looked at me impatiently, and then back to her abdomen. "Damned
thing's getting out of hand."

She had on an expensive tweed suit, and the smart, powder-blue
cashmere coat I helped her into made her look her role of
distinguished world traveler, syndicated columnist and woman of parts.

She hunched her shoulders forward slightly, so the loose folds of the
coat concealed her protruding middle.

"Thanks," she said casually. "I'll write you a check and be on my
way."

"Dr. Sansome will be disappointed," I said casually.

"You heard from him?" she asked with interest.

I nodded.

She put her hands on her hips. "And you still persist with your
fatuous idea that I'm going to have a baby?"

"Let us say," I evaded, "that we have adopted Dr. Sansome's treatment
on a wait-and-see basis. You said yourself that he refused to operate.
We have definitely confirmed that much. Your condition is still
inoperable, but you are coming along fine."

"Well, now, why didn't you tell me that before." She threw off her
coat and relieved the pressure of her waist zipper with a grateful
sigh. "Now you're making sense. Send out for another Spillane. I'll go
along with that. But no more of this drivel about transferring me to
the maternity ward, see?"

* * * * *

Ten nights later, she changed her mind. I passed her room after a late
emergency case. The door was open and I heard her crying softly to
herself. I stopped in. Her bed lamp was on, and for a change she
looked all woman.

I felt her pulse and asked, "What's the matter, Sara?"

"I'm going to have a baby!" she sobbed. "I've been feeling something
peculiar for some time. But tonight it kicked the hell out of me."

"Want to talk about it?" I asked, still holding her wrist.

She looked at me with genuine bafflement in her eyes. Her face was
puckered up like a hurt child's. "But it's so impossible, doctor. I'm
sorry I talked to you the way I have, bu