“I didn’t like to read her out what there was in it,” I continued.
He suddenly flushed so that the veins in his neck stood out, and he stirred again uncomfortably.
“The Belgian girl said her baby had been born a week ago, and that they were going to call it Alfred,” I told him.
He met my eyes. I was grinning. He began to grin, too.
“Good luck to her,” he said.
“Best of luck,” said I.
“And what did you tell her?” he asked.
“That the baby belonged to the old mother—that it was brother to your girl, who was writing to you as a friend of the family.”
He stood smiling, with the long, subtle malice of a farmer.
“And did she take it in?” he asked.