"So he is, and his mother is so respectable. One hardly knows what to do. But this last is such a flagrant act, and I swore I would pack him about his business if it occurred again. The fact is, I rather fancy the boy, and his wild ways, and don't like driving him to destruction. What shall I do, mother?"
"Don't do anything, my dear," replies she, easily.
"I wish I could follow your advice,"—smiling,—"but, unfortunately, if I let him off again I fear it will be a bad example to the others. I almost think——"
But what he thinks on this particular subject is never known.
There is a step outside the door,—a step well known to one at least of those within,—the "soft frou-frou and rustle" of a woman's gown,—and then the door is pushed very gently open, and Lilian enters, with a curious little bundle in her arms.
"See what I've got!" she cries, triumphantly, going over to Lady Chetwoode, and kneeling down beside her. "It's a baby, a real live baby! look at it, auntie; did you ever see such a beauty?"
"A baby," says Lady Chetwoode, fearfully, putting up her glasses, and staring cautiously down upon the rosy little fellow who in Lilian's encircling arms is making a desperate effort to assert his dignity, by sitting up and glaring defiantly around him.
"Yes, indeed; I carried him away when I found him, and have been playing with him for the last ten minutes in my own room. Then I began to think that you might like to see him, too."
"That was very nice of you, my dear," with some hesitation. "It is certainly a very clean baby, but its dress is coarse. Whose baby is it?"