Then she passed on, apparently with no compunctions about having defrauded Mrs. Arnold of legitimate information about the baby.
But that lady hurried across the street to tell Mrs. Flitch something. “It is not her own child, my dear; I am sure of that,” she said, after reporting what Helen had done.
“Well, it could be,” Mrs. Flitch insisted.
“But it isn’t. I don’t think she knows exactly how old the child is. And a real mother, you know, can feel when her baby is teething.”
Mrs. Flitch nodded emphatically, held her note of silence a moment, then added: “If it isn’t her own, there is no telling what kind of baby it is, nor how it will turn out.”
“Well, it is turning out happily for that poor girl anyway. She looks years younger, and happy,” Mrs. Arnold replied.
“If Mr. Flitch deserted me, I couldn’t be happy. I’d never hold up my head again.”
“She has courage.”
“And she seems to have money,” Mrs. Flitch put in.