“My dear sister, I can reassure you. Firstly, the beastly baby is Italian. Secondly, it was promptly christened at Santa Deodata's, and a powerful combination of saints watch over—”

“Don't, dear. And, Harriet, don't be so serious—I mean not so serious when you are with Irma. She will be worse than ever if she thinks we have something to hide.”

Harriet's conscience could be quite as tiresome as Philip's unconventionality. Mrs. Herriton soon made it easy for her daughter to go for six weeks to the Tirol. Then she and Philip began to grapple with Irma alone.

Just as they had got things a little quiet the beastly baby sent another picture post-card—a comic one, not particularly proper. Irma received it while they were out, and all the trouble began again.

“I cannot think,” said Mrs. Herriton, “what his motive is in sending them.”

Two years before, Philip would have said that the motive was to give pleasure. Now he, like his mother, tried to think of something sinister and subtle.

“Do you suppose that he guesses the situation—how anxious we are to hush the scandal up?”

“That is quite possible. He knows that Irma will worry us about the baby. Perhaps he hopes that we shall adopt it to quiet her.”

“Hopeful indeed.”

“At the same time he has the chance of corrupting the child's morals.” She unlocked a drawer, took out the post-card, and regarded it gravely. “He entreats her to send the baby one,” was her next remark.

“She might do it too!”

“I told her not to; but we must watch her carefully, without, of course, appearing to be suspicious.”

Philip was getting to enjoy his mother's diplomacy. He did not think of his own morals and behaviour any more.

“Who's to watch her at school, though? She may bubble out any moment.”

“We can but trust to our influence,” said Mrs. Herriton.

Irma did bubble out, that very day. She was proof against a single post-card, not against two. A new little brother is a valuable sentimental asset to a school-girl, and her school was then passing through an acute phase of baby-worship. Happy the girl who had her quiver full of them, who kissed them when she left home in the morning, who had the right to extricate them from mail-carts in the interval, who dangled them at tea ere they retired to rest! That one might sing the unwritten song of Miriam, blessed above all school-girls, who was allowed to hide her baby brother in a squashy place, where none but herself could find him!

How could Irma keep silent when pretentious girls spoke of baby cousins and baby visitors—she who had a baby brother, who wrote her post-cards through his dear papa? She had promised not to tell about him—she knew not why—and she told. And one girl told another, and one girl told her mother, and the thing was out.

“Yes, it is all very sad,” Mrs. Herriton kept saying. “My daughter-in-law made a very unhappy marriage, as I dare say you know. I suppose that the child will be educated in Italy. Possibly his grandmother may be doing something, but I have not heard of it. I do not expect that she will have him over. She disapproves of the father. It is altogether a painful business for her.”

She was careful only to scold Irma for disobedience—that eighth deadly sin, so convenient to parents and guardians. Harriet would have plunged into needless explanations and abuse. The child was ashamed, and talked about the baby less. The end of the school year was at hand, and she hoped to get another prize. But she also had put her hand to the wheel.

It was several days before they saw Miss Abbott. Mrs. Herriton had not come across her much since the kiss of reconciliation, nor Philip since the journey to London. She had, indeed, been rather a disappointment to him. Her creditable display of originality had never been repeated: he feared she was slipping back. Now she came about the Cottage Hospital—her life was devoted to dull acts of charity—and though she got money out of him and out of his mother, she still sat tight in her chair, looking graver and more wooden than ever.

“I dare say you have heard,” said Mrs. Herriton, well knowing what the matter was.

“Yes, I have. I came to ask you; have any steps been taken?”

Philip was astonished. The question was impertinent in the extreme. He had a regard for Miss Abbott, and regretted that she had been guilty of it.

“About the baby?” asked Mrs. Herriton pleasantly.

“Yes.”

“As far as I know, no steps. Mrs. Theobald may have decided on something, but I have not heard of it.”

“I was meaning, had you decided on anything?”

“The child is no relation of ours,” said Philip. “It is therefore scarcely for us to interfere.”

His mother glanced at him nervously. “Poor Lilia was almost a daughter to me once. I know what Miss Abbott means. But now things have altered. Any initiative would naturally come from Mrs. Theobald.”

“But does not Mrs. Theobald always take any initiative from you?” asked Miss Abbott.

Mrs. Herriton could not help colouring. “I sometimes have given her advice in the past. I should not presume to do so now.”

“Then is nothing to be done for the child at all?”

“It is extraordinarily good of you to take this unexpected interest,” said Philip.

“The child came into the world through my negligence,” replied Miss Abbott. “It is natural I should take an interest in it.”

“My dear Caroline,” said Mrs. Herriton, “you must not brood over the thing. Let bygones be bygones. The child should worry you even less than it worries us. We never even mention it. It belongs to another world.”

Miss Abbott got up without replying and turned to go. Her extreme gravity made Mrs. Herriton uneasy. “Of course,” she added, “if Mrs. Theobald decides on any plan that seems at all practicable—I must say I don't see any such—I shall ask if I may join her in it, for Irma's sake, and share in any possible expenses.”

“Please would you let me know if she decides on anything. I should like to join as well.”

“My dear, how you throw about your money! We would never allow it.”

“And if she decides on nothing, please also let me know. Let me know in any case.”

Mrs. Herriton made a point of kissing her.

“Is the young person mad?” burst out Philip as soon as she had departed. “Never in my life have I seen such colossal impertinence. She ought to be well smacked, and sent back to Sunday-school.”

His mother said nothing.

“But don't you see—she is practically threatening us? You can't put her off with Mrs. Theobald; she knows as well as we do that she is a nonentity. If we don't do anything she's going to raise a scandal—that we neglect our relatives, &c., which is, of course, a lie. Still she'll say it. Oh, dear, sweet, sober Caroline Abbott has a screw loose! We knew it at Monteriano. I had my suspicions last year one day in the train; and here it is again. The young person is mad.”

She still said nothing.

“Shall I go round at once and give it her well? I'd really enjoy it.”

In a low, serious voice—such a voice as she had not used to him for months—Mrs. Herriton said, “Caroline has been extremely impertinent. Yet there may be something in what she says after all. Ought the child to grow up in that place—and with that father?”

Philip started and shuddered. He saw that his mother was not sincere. Her insincerity to others had amused him, but it was disheartening when used against himself.

“Let us admit frankly,” she continued, “that after all we may have responsibilities.”

“I don't understand you, Mother. You are turning absolutely round. What are you up to?”

In one moment an impenetrable barrier had been erected between them. They were no longer in smiling confidence. Mrs. Herriton was off on tactics of her own—tactics which might be beyond or beneath him.

His remark offended her. “Up to? I am wondering whether I ought not to adopt the child. Is that sufficiently plain?”