“Oh,” replied Iris cheerfully, “I know all about it. It’s teething, you know, and then it caught cold, and then it turned to bronchitis. It’s been ill a fortnight, but now it’s taken a turn.”
“Has it, indeed?” said Mrs Fotheringham sarcastically.
“You see,” said Iris, “I know all about bronchitis, because Dottie had it so badly a year ago. We had to keep her in one room for ever so long. It was Roche’s embrocation that did her more good than anything. I told Moore that, and he got some. When Dottie got better the doctor said we ought to take her to the seaside, but that was out of the question, mother said.”
“Why?” asked Mrs Fotheringham.
“Because it would have cost so much,” answered Iris.
She thought it was rather dull of her godmother not to have known that without asking, but as she seemed interested in Moore’s baby she went on to supply her with a few more facts about his family.
“Moore has seven children,” she said; “the eldest is just Max’s age, ten years old. His name is Joseph. Then there’s another boy, his name is Stephen. Then there’s a girl, her name is—”
“Stop!” said Mrs Fotheringham sharply.
Iris looked up startled, in the act of checking off the members of Moore’s family on her fingers. There was an expression of decided displeasure on Mrs Fotheringham’s face.
“May I ask,” she said, “how and where you have gathered these details about Moore’s affairs?”