"'Pon me soul, Agatha, I'm as much in the dark as you. I don't know."
"A little over a year, I'd say. Well, I just heard Medcroft say that she wasn't his child. Whose is it?" She stood there like an accusing angel. He started violently, and his jaw dropped; an expression of alarmed protest leaped into his listless eyes.
"'Pon me word, Agatha, how the devil should I know? Don't look at me like that. Give you my word of honour, I don't know the woman. 'Pon me soul, I don't, my dear."
He was very much in earnest, thoroughly aroused by what seemed to be a direct insinuation.
"Oh, don't be stupid," she cried. "Good heavens, can there be a scandal in that lovely woman's life?"
"There's never any scandal in a woman's life unless she's reasonably lovely," remarked he.
"Whose child is she, if she isn't Medcroft's?" she pursued with a perplexed frown.
"Demme, Agatha, don't ask me," he said irritably, passing his hand over his brow. "I've told you that twice. Ask them; I daresay they know."
She looked at him in disgust. "As if I could do such a thing as that! Dear me, I don't understand it at all. Four years married. Yes, I'm sure that's it. Carney, you don't suppose—" She hesitated. It was not necessary to complete the obvious question.
"Agatha," said he, weighing his remark carefully, "I've said all along that Medcroft is a fool. Take those windows, for instance. If he—"