"You're happy, you love and are loved, so please don't put it that way. It's not fair. Think of the pitiable position I'm in." "My dear Roxbury," quite severely, "if there's nothing else that will influence you, just stop to consider the che-ild! There's Tootles, dear Tootles, to think of." Of course Mrs. Odell-Carney could not be expected to know that Edith was blithely jesting. "My dear Edith," he said, just as firmly "Tootles has nothing to do with the case. You know, and Constance knows, and I know, and the whole world will soon know that I'm not even related to her, poor little beggar. I don't see why she should come between me and happiness just because she happens to bear a social resemblance to a man who isn't her father. Come, now, let's talk over the situation sensibly." Just then they passed beyond the hearing of the astonished eavesdropper. Good heaven, what was this? Not his child? Two minutes later Mrs. Odell-Carney was back at the spring where they had left her somnolent husband, who had refused to climb a hill because all of his breath was required to smoke a cigaret. "Carney," she said sternly, her lips rigid, her eyes set hard upon his face, "how long have the Medcrofts been married?" He blinked heavily. "How the devil should I know? 'Pon me word, it's--" "Four years, I think Mrs. Rodney told me. How old is that baby?" "'Pon me soul, Agatha, I'm as much in the dark as you. I don't know." "A little over a year, I'd say. Well, I just heard Medcroft say that she wasn't his child. Whose is it?" She stood there like an accusing angel. He started violently, and his jaw dropped; an expression of alarmed protest leaped into his listless eyes. "'Pon me word, Agatha, how the devil should I know? Don't look at me like that. Give you my word of honour, I don't know the woman. 'Pon me soul, I don't, my dear." He was very much in earnest, thoroughly aroused by what seemed to be a direct insinuation. "Oh, don't be stupid," she cried. "Good heavens, can there be a scandal in that lovely woman's life?" "There's never any scandal in a woman's life unless she's reasonably lovely," remarked he. "Whose child is she, if she isn't Medcroft's?" she pursued with a perplexed frown. "Demme, Agatha, don't ask me," he said irritably, passing his hand over his brow. "I've told you that twice. Ask them; I daresay they know." She looked at him in disgust. "As if I could do such a thing as that! Dear me, I don't understand it at all. Four years married. Yes, I'm sure that's it. Carney, you don't suppose--" She hesitated. It was not necessary to complete the obvious question. "Agatha," said he, weighing his remark carefully, "I've said all along that Medcroft is a fool. Take those windows, for instance. If he--" "Oh, rubbish! What have the windows to do with it? You are positively stupid. And I'd come to like her too. Yes, I'd even asked her to come and see me." She was really distressed.