“Oh, Leigh,” said Mary at last, her voice trembling, “do you think it can be ’cos of—” but here she stopped.
Leigh turned round sharply. His face was white, but still he tried to be angry.
“Why can’t you speak out, you silly girl?” he said. “Why don’t you say what you mean?—that I’ve made her ill by the tumbling out of the perambulator? Nonsense, she fell on the top of Janie Perry, and Janie said she came quite softly. How could it have hurt her?”
“I don’t know,” said Mary, but she spoke very sadly.
“There’s was a little boy,” began Artie, “wot fell out of a winder, and he jumped up and said he wasn’t hurt, but then he was killed.”
“What do you mean?” said Leigh. “How was he killed if he wasn’t hurt?”
“I mean he died soon,” said Artie. “P’raps it was the next day. He was hurt inside his head though it wasn’t blooding outside.”
“And babies are so dellykid,” said Mary.
Leigh gave a sort of angry grunt, something between a sob and a scold. Certainly Mary and Artie were not comforting. But did he deserve comforting? It was true he had meant no harm at all to dear baby. He had thought it would be fun for her as well as for the others and himself—most for himself, I am afraid—if Fuzz could be taught to draw her carriage quite well, like the dogs papa had told them about. But, had it been right to do it secretly, without anybody’s leave? He had turned it and twisted it so in his mind that he had persuaded himself he only wanted to “surprise” everybody, for one reason; and for another, that nurse was so silly and fussy; and for still another, that there was no need to tease papa and mamma about every little plan for amusing themselves that he and the others made.
But now, somehow, none of these reasons seemed any good; they all slipped and melted away as if there was nothing real in them.