"Musn't it? Especially nowadays, when one never goes for much, real hard work of any kind being such a bore. That's her mother beside her. She is always beside her. Fat little woman, d'ye see?"
"Yes, a nice motherly-looking little woman she seems to be."
"Horribly motherly! She has a birthday for every month in the year!"
"How?" says Monica, opening her eyes.
"I don't so much allude to her own natal day (which by this time I should say is obscure) as to her children's. They came to her at all seasons, from January to December. There are fourteen of them."
"Oh, it can't be possible! Poor, poor soul!" says Monica, feeling quite depressed.
"She isn't poor; she is very well off," says Mr. Kelly, obtusely. "Much better than she deserves. So don't grieve for her. She glories in her crime. Well, it's 'a poor heart that never rejoices,' you know: so I suppose she is right. There's Miss Fitzgerald: do you admire her?"
"I am sure I ought," says Monica, simply; "but I don't."
"You have the courage of your opinions. Every one down here admires her tremendously. I agree with you, you know, but then," softly, "I am nobody!"
"Perhaps you think I am jealous," says Monica. "But indeed I am not."