Her friends replied simultaneously: “Never!�
“He is the father of my child,� continued Mrs. Lovelace-Legge, “and, I am given to understand, a charming person!�
Lady Cranberry’s lips moved soundlessly. She might have been breathing a prayer for patience.
“The General,� went on Lotta, “married my old school-fellow, Julia Daubeny, in the spring of last year. He had already been married—in fact, had been twice a widower—when Julia met him at a Garrison Gymkhana. It was a case of love at first sight, and I gave Julia her trousseau as my wedding present. And now she is sending me home the General’s baby—the child of his last wife—as it cannot stand the climate, and she knows how I dote on little children.�
“How old is this child?� queried Lady Cranberry.
Mrs. Lovelace-Legge produced a thin crackling envelope from her pocket, and unfolded Mrs. Carabyne’s letter. “Julia always writes without punctuation, and all her capitals are in the wrong places,� she said, apologizing for the hesitation with which she attacked the scrawled pages. “‘I forgot to mention,’� wrote Julia, “‘that the General has one son quite a darling and a favorite with everybody. He was christened Dampierre. There is French blood on the mother’s side, but everybody calls him ‘Dumps.’ He has the sweetest nature and splendid teeth until about six months old——’�
“Incoherent, isn’t she, rather?� hinted Lady Cranberry.
“‘Six months old when he was thrown out of his bamboo-cart’—Anglo-Indian for perambulator, I suppose—‘thrown out of his bamboo-cart with a woman who had got hold of him at the time a most dreadful creature and sustained a severe concussion of the brain. You will gather by this that the poor dear is inclined to be more than a little child.’�
“Is not the sense of that rather—involved?�
Mrs. Lovelace-Legge held out the letter.