“And where is baby?” he asked.
“Oh, you know about him?” said Mrs. Carter. “He’s in bed, to be sure.”
“I saw him in your arms as I was passing up the road half an hour ago.”
“What, you passed along here? I didn’t notice you.”
“I came up from the station. Now, this is something like good milk. You have a nice little farm here, too. Do you manage it yourself?”
“Yes; my husband died a twelvemonth come May.”
“It must be hard work with baby, too, as well, especially if you’ve got any youngsters of your own.”
“How can you know that this baby isn’t my own?”
“Oh, as to that, I’m not quite so much in the dark about things. Why, I’m living in the very flat which its poor mother occupied. I know its aunt, I know its father—”