Margaret's son was reclining, very red and angry, in the arms of an old woman who attempted vainly to soothe him by tottering up and down the room as fast as her decrepit legs would carry her. The serving-girl, who had opened the door on the previous evening, stood beside the window, her eyes swollen with weeping.
"He is extremely small," said the Captain.
"On the contrary, he is an unusually fine boy."
"He appears to me to want something."
"He wants food."
"Bless my soul! Has none been offered to him?"
"Yes; but he refuses it."
"Extraordinary!"
"Not at all. I understand—do I not?—that you have adopted this infant."
The Captain nodded.