“She certainly is a little flippant—I must say that,” admitted Aunt Sophy diplomatically, as she beamed at the rug, and gave vent to a voluble string of infantile expletives.
“You never should have called on her,” Maria Furlonger cried reproachfully. “And it did have boofy nickle legs, so it did.”
She, too, beamed at the baby. He returned her wide grin with a look of stolid, pitying superiority. Annie, her eyes swimming with tenderness as they rested on the naked, purplish limbs, said:
“Isn’t it wonderful, the way he takes notice?”
“She is no more married than you are—than I am,” Maria continued, returning to the attack, and pulling her mouth back to its natural limits.
Annie and Aunt Sophy froze a little after the manner of matrons. They said instinctively and together:
“A married man never sneaks home to his wife after dark when he has been away for months,” Maria persisted. “It was past ten. Mrs. Daborn was calling in her cat—the tortoiseshell she has had for sixteen years. You know that Si Daborn’s cottage is just opposite the Buttery. She saw him go in like a thief—not even a hand-bag.”
“A married man always has luggage. Mother used to pack father’s bag herself. If there are buttons off or a thin place in the socks it reflects on the wife.”
“I must say”—Aunt Sophy held out her finger for the child to clutch—“that a gentleman doesn’t usually—return from South America——”