“Well, Richard,” she said earnestly, “what do you think of her?”
“Of whom?” asked Richard.
“Why, of the girl.”
“Well, I think, judging by myself, she must be cold and hungry.”
“She’s very small,” continued Mrs Roy, sitting down in a low chair and glancing thoughtfully at the cradle which stood near it—“smaller than I thought.”
“Who? The baby?”
“No. Of course, I mean the girl. I wish you wouldn’t joke, Richard, when you know how anxious I am.”
“I didn’t mean to, really,” said Mr Roy penitently, as his wife looked up at him with distressed blue eyes. “Only, as you always call the baby ‘She,’ how was I to know? As to being small, you know—well, the last girl was big enough, I’m sure.”
“And stupid enough,” added Mrs Roy sadly. “I couldn’t have kept her, even if she hadn’t insisted on going away.”
“I suppose you’ve cautioned Mrs Shivers not to gossip to this girl?” said Mr Roy in lowered tones.