She died, the year before we were married, and left
Harry with this one daughter. He has had a housekeeper since then; but
the housekeeper took unto herself a husband, a third one, a month ago.
Now Harry has been having pneumonia and is ordered to southern France for
a while, and he wants to know if the child can come to us."
"What?" Theodora's tone was charged with consternation.
"Isn't it awful? And yet I am sorry for him. We're the nearest relatives
the child has except Joe Everard, and naturally she can't be left to the
mercies of a bachelor uncle. What shall we do, Ted?"
For one short instant, Theodora stared into the fire. Then she looked up
into her husband's blue eyes.
"Take her, of course," she said briskly.
Mr. Farrington had never outgrown certain of his lover-like habits. Now
he stretched his hand out to hers for a minute.
"You're a comfort, Ted," he said. "I hated to refuse Harry, for his
letter was a blue one. Will she be horribly in the way?"
"No; I sha'n't let her," Theodora answered bluntly. "Don't worry, Billy;
we shall get on, I know. Have you ever seen her?"
"Once, when she was in the knitted-sock stage of development. She wasn't
at all pretty then."
"How old is she now?"
"Hear what her father saith." And Mr. Farrington took a letter from his
breast pocket. Its creases showed signs of the frequent readings it had
received that day.
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