“No; I do not think so,” he replied, going back in his mind to the recollection of a thin-legged little girl with lank hair.
Mrs. Ingham-Baker’s proud eyes rested complacently on her offspring.
“Do you like her dress?” she asked in a whisper--only audible to him. But Agatha knew the gist of it. The arm and shoulder nearest to them gave a little jerk of self-consciousness.
“Very pretty,” replied Fitz; and Mrs. Ingham-Baker stored the remark away for future use. For all she knew--or all she wanted to know--it might refer to Agatha’s self.
“I am afraid I shall lose her, you know--horribly afraid,” whispered Mrs. Ingham-Baker, knowing the value of competition in all things.
Fitz looked genuinely sympathetic, and glanced at Agatha again, wondering what disease had marked her for its own. Mrs. Ingham-Baker thought fit to explain indirectly, as was her wont.
“She is very much admired,” she said under her breath, with a sigh and a lugubrious shake of the head.
“Oh,” murmured Fitz, with a smile.
“Yes,” answered Mrs. Ingham-Baker. She heaved a sigh, observed a decent pause, and then added, “Does it surprise you?”
“Not in the least. It is most natural.”