Properly speaking, we had quarrelled with the Pagrams.
We both lived in the same street, and Pagram is in the same office as
myself. For some time we were on terms. Then one night they looked in
to borrow--well, I forget now precisely what it was, but they looked in
to borrow something. A month afterward, as they had not returned it, we
sent round to ask. Mrs. Pagram replied that it had already been
returned, and Pagram--this was the damning thing--told me at the office
in so many words that they had never borrowed it. Now, I hate anything
like deception. So does Eliza. For two years or more Eliza and Mrs.
Pagram have met in the street without taking the least notice of each
other. I speak to Pagram in the office--being, as you might say, more
or less paid to speak to him. But outside we have nothing to do with
each other.
* * * * *
It was on Wednesday morning, I think, at breakfast, that Eliza said:
"I've just heard from Jane, who had it from the milkman--Mrs. Pagram
had a baby born last night."
"Well, that," I observed, "is of no earthly interest to us."
"Of course it isn't. I only just mentioned it."
"Is it a boy or girl?"
"A girl. I only hope she will bring it up to speak the truth."
I replied that she might hope what we did not expect. So far Eliza had
taken just exactly the tone that I wanted. But as I watched her, I saw
her expression change and her underlip pulled down on one side, as it
were.
"Well," I said rather sharply, "what is it? These people are nothing to
us."
"No. But--it reminded me--our little girl--my baby--that died. And I----"
Here she put down her knife and fork, got up, and walked to the window.
There she stood, with her back to me.
I had a mind to speak to her about the foolishness of recalling what
must be very upsetting to her. But I said nothing, and began to brush
my silk hat briskly. It was about time that I was starting for the
city.