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Mr.
Button
,
sank
down
upon
a
chair
near
his
son
and
concealed
his
face
in
his
hands
.
"
My
heavens
!
"
he
murmured
,
in
an
ecstasy
of
horror
.
"
What
will
people
say
?
What
must
I
do
?
"
"
You
'll
have
to
take
him
home
,
"
insisted
the
nurse
--
"
immediately
!
"
A
grotesque
picture
formed
itself
with
dreadful
clarity
before
the
eyes
of
the
tortured
man
--
a
picture
of
himself
walking
through
the
crowded
streets
of
the
city
with
this
appalling
apparition
stalking
by
his
side
.
"
I
ca
n't
.
I
ca
n't
,
"
he
moaned
.
People
would
stop
to
speak
to
him
,
and
what
was
he
going
to
say
?
He
would
have
to
introduce
this
--
this
septuagenarian
:
"
This
is
my
son
,
born
early
this
morning
.
"
And
then
the
old
man
would
gather
his
blanket
around
him
and
they
would
plod
on
,
past
the
bustling
stores
,
the
slave
market
--
for
a
dark
instant
Mr.
Button
wished
passionately
that
his
son
was
black
--
past
the
luxurious
houses
of
the
residential
district
,
past
the
home
for
the
aged
...
.
"
Come
!
Pull
yourself
together
,
"
commanded
the
nurse
.
"
See
here
,
"
the
old
man
announced
suddenly
,
"
if
you
think
I
'm
going
to
walk
home
in
this
blanket
,
you
're
entirely
mistaken
.
"
"
Babies
always
have
blankets
.
"
With
a
malicious
crackle
the
old
man
held
up
a
small
white
swaddling
garment
.
"
Look
!
"
he
quavered
.
"
This
is
what
they
had
ready
for
me
.
"
"
Babies
always
wear
those
,
"
said
the
nurse
primly
.
