"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.
"And why not?" he demanded. "Hang it all, Agatha, it's nothing unusual.
She's a jolly good sort and a sight too good for Medcroft. He's a stupid
ass. I've said so all along. How the devil she ever married him, I can't
see. But, by Jove, Agatha, I can readily see how she might have loved
the father of this child, no matter who he is. Take my advice, my dear,
and don't be harsh in your judgment. Don't say a word about what you've
heard. If they are reconciled to the--er--the situation, why the devil
should we give a hang? And, above all, don't let these Rodneys suspect."
Here he lowered his voice gradually.
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