"Well, I'm not surprised," said Mrs. Richards again.
A young woman presented herself at the office door. There was resolute respectability in her blue serge suit, brushed shiny, too thin for December wear. She carried a small straw telescope and her voice sounded capable and firm. "Can I go right up, Mrs. Richards?"
"Why, I suppose you may as well, Irene. You've come for Billiken?"
"Yes. I'm taking her on the night-boat."
"Wait," said the Irishman, as she turned toward the stairs. "Did Ethel tell him?"
"You mean, did she tell Jerry about—about the baby?" The good sister of the erring sister flushed painfully. "Not that I've heard of. I guess she knows better than that."
"There is no 'better than that,'" said Michael Daragh, sternly. "There is nothing better than the truth." The line of his lean jaw was salient.
"If I can once get her respectably married," said Irene, nippingly, her small face resolute, "I won't worry about what she tells or doesn't tell. It's been hard enough on me, I can tell you!" She went briskly upstairs and they heard her firm closing of the door.
"You see?" the matron wanted to know.
"I'm fearing we've lost the fight," said Michael Daragh.