“Ah,” purred Mrs. Ivy, continuing the conversation. “Far be it from me to criticize her. It is against my principles to entertain a critical attitude toward any one. Besides, I quite adore the dear child. I consider her a precious gift to a grateful world. But you must acknowledge, Mr. Gooch, that with all her sweetness, she doesn't always allow herself to be guided.”
“Good Lord, no,” said Mr. Gooch testily.
“She'll look you straight in the eye and smile, while you are advising her, then go straight off and do as she pleases. This matter of the Doctor's will, for instance. I spent two days arguing with her about the futility of publishing two dozen volumes that nobody will ever read.”
“But that was his dying request, Mr. Gooch. Only one who has loved and lost can know the nature of that obligation.” Mr. Gooch sniffed impatiently. Conjugal felicity was a subject that irritated him in every fiber.
“Then her charities,” he went on crustily; “she's got no money to be throwing away, yet every family on Billy-goat Hill comes to her when it gets into trouble.”
“Yes, and she doesn't hesitate to sit down in those dreadful hovels, and take those unclean babies in her arms. It has made me frightfully nervous since we came here. Gerald is so sensitive to germs.”
“What is this latest tomfoolery about a kindergarten?”
“Why, she has actually gotten Mrs. Bartrum and Mrs. Horton, and some of those other society women, to rent the hall over the grocery where the Cant-Pass-It Saloon used to be. They are going to open a kindergarten and Margery Sequin is coming home from Europe to take charge of it. I am afraid the project is built upon the sands. There is not a church member on the board!”
“Well, they needn't come to me for a contribution,” said Mr. Gooch. “I don't believe in kindergartens.”
While this conversation was taking place, quite a different one was in progress, on the up-stairs side porch which had been converted into a summer bedroom for Miss Lady and Bertie.