"Good Lord, sir," whispered the nurse, with a nervous glance about her; "this ain't Raggles, sir. This is a baby."
"Do you think I'm blind, madam?" whispered he, savagely. "I can see it's a baby, but I didn't know there was to be one. Its father didn't mention it to me."
"It's a wise father that knows his own child," said the nurse, with prompt sarcasm.
"I think they should have prepared me for this," growled he. "Is it supposed to be mine? Does—does Mrs. Medcroft know about it?"
"You mean, about the baby, sir? Of course she does. It's hers. Please don't look so odd, sir. My word, sir, I didn't know you didn't know it, sir. I wasn't told, was I, O'Brien? There, sir, you see! Mrs. Medcroft said as I was to bring Tootles in to you, sir. She said—"
"Tootles?" murmured Brock. "Tootles and Raggles. I daresay there's a distinction without much of a difference. Are you Burton?"
"Yes, Mr. Medcroft. The nurse. Won't you take baby for a minute, sir? Just to get acquainted, and for appearance's sake." She whispered the well-meant entreaty. Brock, now well into the spirit of the situation, obligingly extended his arms. The baby set up a lusty howl of aversion.
"For God's sake, take him back to his mother!" groaned Brock hastily. "He doesn't like strangers! Take him away!"
"It isn't a he, sir," whispered the maid, as the nurse prepared to beat a hasty retreat with the Medcroft offspring. "It's a her, sir."
Brock's face was a study in perplexity as they hurried from the car.