Then Mrs. Delville made explanation, putting on a dirty long glove and smoothing a crumpled and ill-fitting ball-dress.
"I was at the dance an' the Doctor was tellin' me about your baby bein' so ill. So I came away early, an' your door was open an' I—I—lost my boy this way six months ago, an' I've been tryin' to forget it ever since, an' I—I—I, am very sorry for intrudin' an' anythin' that has happened." Mrs. Bent was putting out the doctor's eye with a lamp as he stooped over Dora.
"Take it away," said the Doctor. "I think the child will do, thanks to you, Mrs. Delville. I should have come too late, but, I assure you,"—he was addressing himself to Mrs. Delville—"I had not the faintest reason to expect this. The membrane must have grown like a mushroom. Will one of you ladies help me, please?"
He had reason for his concluding sentence. Mrs. Hauksbee had thrown herself into Mrs. Delville's arms, where she was weeping copiously, and Mrs. Bent was unpicturesquely mixed up with both, while from the triple tangle came the sound of many sobs and much promiscuous kissing.
"Good gracious! I've spoilt all your beautiful roses!" said Mrs. Hauksbee, lifting her head from the lump of crushed gum and calico atrocities on Mrs. Delville's shoulder and hurrying to the Doctor.
Mrs. Delville picked up her shawl, and slouched out of the room, moping her eyes with the glove that she had not put on.
"I always said she was more than a woman," sobbed Mrs. Hauksbee hysterically, "and that proves it!" •••••••••• Six weeks later, Mrs. Bent and Dora had returned to the hotel. Mrs. Hauksbee had come out of the Valley of Humiliation, had ceased to reproach herself for her collapse
