I of course agreed.
Mme. Smilowicz received us in a tiny room—bachelor's lodgings on the fourth floor—amongst a confused medley of boxes and mattresses and lumber of various kinds. She began by asking us to speak low, not to disturb Andy, who was then asleep: then she showed him to me: a one-year-old baby, asleep in a cradle. It had a tilted Mongolian nose, the result, no doubt, of the mother's having so often seen the type.
I paid it several compliments, of the What-a-fine-baby sort, and had not the least fear of being suspected of irony.
For the rest, Mme. Smilowicz has not the appearance of a "youthful mother"; she is a thin black-avised little woman in a dark gown, with a double eye-glass on her nose.
She poured some spirits of wine into the little pan for heating the kettle, and while it was burning itself out, she said, very low:
"My dear Madame, people say that women are weaker than men. But they do not in the least take into account all the strength that we expend over the children; just as if it were uselessly wasted! But furthermore, and setting this aside, let any one of them try to go
