"They're all like babies," murmured Mrs. Walbridge absently, her eyes fixed on space. "Every one of them."
"Have you heard the news?" the girl asked, mysteriously, drawing her hostess a little to one side, under pretence of looking at a picture near the mantelpiece.
"News! No, what news?" Poor Mrs. Walbridge started, for, at the present crisis in her life, all news seemed to point towards her own domestic trouble.
Jenny looked very wise. "He'll be telling you himself, no doubt, but I don't mind telling you first. It's Oliver."
Mrs. Walbridge looked at young Wick, who was talking, with every appearance of complete happiness, to Hermione, with whom he was very good friends. "What is it?" she asked. "I've not seen him for nearly a fortnight."
"I know. He's been very busy. The fact is he's engaged to be married, and we see hardly anything of him, mother and I."
Mrs. Walbridge felt the ground rock under her feet. How could it be possible that Oliver Wick was engaged when only a few nights ago he had sat before her in the room downstairs shaken to the heart by misery about Grisel? "Are you—are you sure?" she faltered.
Jenny laughed. "Well, I ought to be. We hear nothing but Dorothy from morning till night—that is, whenever we do see him, he talks of nothing else. And isn't it ridiculous, her name's Perkins?"
"Dorothy Perkins! That is a coincidence. I'm sure I hope they'll be very happy. Does your mother like her?" the poor lady murmured, trying to get her bearings.
"Oh, we've never seen her, mother and I. She lives at Chiswick and her mother's an invalid, so she hardly ever leaves her. We've seen her picture, though, and she's lovely."