Repton pointed to Southerley with a tragic forefinger.
“Ask him!” said he in a hollow voice.
Southerley growled a little, and then moved sulkily in his chair.
“Oh, the child’s right enough, as children go, I suppose,” said he. “The trouble of it is that Miss Merriman has grown so much attached to the wretched little animal that there’s no talking to her, no getting her attention, no interesting her in anything but its miserable little mewlings and pukings.”
“That’s the worst of the domestic women you’re so fond of, Bayre,” went on Repton; “when there’s a child about they won’t pay the least attention to anything or anybody else. Whenever we go, as, of course, being two out of its three fathers, we’re bound to go, to inspect the child, and see that it’s properly fed and clothed and educated—” Bayre interrupted with a mocking laugh, but Repton went steadily and stodgily on: “Whenever we seek to do our duty, as I say, Miss Merriman makes fun of us, and says, ‘Did its nice ickle papas tum to see if its bockle was too warm-warm?’ And such stuff as that. Now you’re come back I hope you’ll try to bring this young woman to reason, and—”
“I hope you won’t try to do anything of the sort,” growled Southerley in a saturnine manner from his chair. “That would be just the last straw, for you to interfere. For we know you like domestic women, and so no doubt you’d worm yourself into her confidence, and—”
“And we should be nowhere!” added Repton. “That’s true.”
“Certainly we’re nowhere already,” went on Southerley, meditatively. “I’m only hoping you’ll be nowhere too!”
“You needn’t trouble your heads about me,” said Bayre, airily. “I’ve not the least wish to enter the lists, I assure you.”
The words were scarcely out of his mouth when there was a soft knock at the door, and to the rage and consternation of two out of the three young men, beautiful Miss Merriman, who had not been once to the Diggings since Bayre went away, peeped into the room and smiled a gracious “How do you do?” to that fortunate young man.