"I hope the child will be no obstacle, m' lady," put in Mrs. Barbour, stiffly.
"Obstacle!" Lady Anne repeated. "God bless me, no. Why should she be? You must have your baby, I suppose, same as I have my dog. What's her name?"
"Fenella, m' lady."
"Very well. You be good to Rock—I'll be good to Fenella. I'll send a postcard when I've arranged things," she said. "Come on, Rock!"
"Why was the lady c'yin', mummy?" asked Fenella, whose accent still left much to be desired.
Mrs. Barbour could not enlighten her. She was wondering herself why the woman had first called her child Fenella and then asked her name. A conversation in the corner of the dining-room at the Palmyra Club half an hour later might have carried her mystification a little further.
"I don't think I'll do a matinée with you this afternoon, Brenda," Lady Anne was saying to her dearest friend. "Seeing Nigel's baby has rather upset me. I think I'll go to my room and howl for a bit."
"What's she like, Nanno?" asked the dearest, narrowing her eyes through the smoke of her cigarette.
"Nice, comfy, child-bearing sort of person. She has no airs. That was a lie of the Lulford woman."