“Magnificent!” said Mr. Pinhey.
“I take Lydia to witness I speak no more than the truth,” replied the matron. “But these things are out of our keeping, though Tom read in a paper some time since a remarkable verdict, that if a woman with child ate enough green stuff, she might count on a boy.”
“That’s a painful subject,” said Lydia, “and you’d better not talk about it, Polly.”
“It was painful at the time,” admitted Mrs. Dolbear, “because Tom’s one of they hopeful men, who will always jump at a new thing like a trout jumps at a fly. And what was the result? From the moment he hit on that cussed paper, he fed me more like a cow than a creature with a soul. ’Twas green stuff morning, noon and night—lettuce and spinach—which I hate any time—and broccoli and turnip tops and spring onions and cauliflower and Lord knows what mess till I rebelled and defied the man. I didn’t lose my temper; but I said, calm and slow, ‘Tom,’ I said, ‘if you don’t want me to be brought to a bed of cabbage next September, stop it. God’s my judge,’ I said, ‘I won’t let down another herb of the field. I want red meat,’ I told him, ‘or else I won’t be responsible.’ He argued for it, but I had my way and Lydia upheld me.”
“And what was the result in the family line if I may venture to ask?” inquired Mr. Pinhey.
“The result in the family line was Jane Ethel,” answered Mrs. Dolbear; “and where is Jane Ethel now, Lydia?”
“In her little grave,” answered Mrs. Trivett.
Her sister-in-law immediately began to weep.
“Don’t you cry, my dear, it wasn’t your fault. The poor baby was born with death in her eyes, as I always said.”
Mrs. Dolbear sighed and moved ponderously across the room. She was short and broad with a touzled head of golden hair and a colourless face. But her smile was beautiful and her teeth perfect.