"Take it down," says he. "How can anyone tell nowadays what a woman has in her hair unless one sees?"
"Well, it's not straws, any way," says Mrs. Chichester, with a shrug of her lean shoulders.
"It might be worse!" says Mr. Gower, who has always declared that Mrs. Chichester has dyed her hair. His tone, which is always sepulchral, attracts immediate attention, as all things sepulchral do. "And as for Matilda Bruce, I refuse to see why you should sit upon her with such determined cruelty. I know her, and I think her a most excellent wife, and house-wife, and—mother!"
"A mother!" says Margaret, who had known Mrs. Bruce slightly, but had not been in sympathy with her.
"Why, yes! She's got a baby," says Mrs. Chichester. "Didn't you hear? Nobody does hear much about them. For my part, I pity her about that baby! It's so awkward to have children!"
"Awkward?"
"Yes. Nasty people go about asking their ages, especially the age of the eldest little horror, and then they can guess to a nicety how long one must have lived. It's a mean way of finding out one's age. I'm thankful I have no children."
Mrs. Chichester leans back in her chair and laughs.
Perhaps—perhaps—there is a regret in her laugh.
"I think it is the children who ought to be thankful," says old
Miss Gower, covering her with a condemnatory glance.
Mrs. Chichester turns her eye on her.