“Did you let her?”
“I got up without saying anything.”
“You must have felt just as you did when I wanted to pray for the devil.”
“He is the devil,” cried Harriet.
“No, Harriet; he is too vulgar.”
“I will thank you not to scoff against religion!” was Harriet’s retort. “Think of that poor baby. Irma is right to pray for him. What an entrance into life for an English child!”
“My dear sister, I can reassure you. Firstly, the beastly baby is Italian. Secondly, it was promptly christened at Santa Deodata’s, and a powerful combination of saints watch over—”
“Don’t, dear. And, Harriet, don’t be so serious—I mean not so serious when you are with Irma. She will be worse than ever if she thinks we have something to hide.”
Harriet’s conscience could be quite as tiresome as Philip’s unconventionality. Mrs. Herriton soon made it easy for her daughter to go for six weeks to the Tirol. Then she and Philip began to grapple with Irma alone.
Just as they had got things a little quiet the beastly baby sent another picture post-card—a comic one, not particularly proper. Irma received it while they were out, and all the trouble began again.