Billy suppressed a smile. Billy was thinking that little Kate came naturally by at least one of her traits.
“Really, that child is impossible, sometimes,” resumed Mrs. Hartwell, with a sigh. “You know the absurd things she was always saying two or three years ago, when we came on to Cyril's wedding.”
“Yes, I remember.”
“Well, I thought she would get over it. But she doesn't. She's worse, if anything; and sometimes her insight, or intuition, or whatever you may call it, is positively uncanny. I never know what she's going to remark next, when I take her anywhere; but it's safe to say, whatever it is, it'll be unexpected and usually embarrassing to somebody. And—is that the baby?” broke off Mrs. Hartwell, as a cooing laugh and a woman's voice came from the next room.
“Yes. The nurse has just brought him in, I think,” said Billy.
“Then I'll go right now and see him,” rejoined Kate, rising to her feet and hurrying into the next room.
Left alone, Billy lay back wearily in her reclining-chair. She wondered why Kate always tired her so. She wished she had had on her blue kimono, then perhaps Kate would not have thought she looked so badly. Blue was always more becoming to her than—
Billy turned her head suddenly. From the next room had come Kate's clear-cut, decisive voice.
“Oh, no, I don't think he looks a bit like his father. That little snubby nose was never the Henshaw nose.”
Billy drew in her breath sharply, and pulled herself half erect in her chair. From the next room came Kate's voice again, after a low murmur from the nurse.