Her embroidery hoop, with a large shaded pink rose in the working, had, contrary to her custom, fallen from idle hands, and instead of following the dart of the infinitesimal needle, Mrs. Jett’s eyes were burningly upon Mrs. Peopping, following, with almost lip-reading intensity, that worthy lady’s somewhat voluptuous mouthings.

She was a large, light person with protuberant blue eyes that looked as if at some time they had been two-thirds choked from their sockets and a characteristic of opening every sentence with her mouth shaped to an explosive O, which she filled with as much breath as it would hold.

It had been a long tale of obstetrical fact and fancy, told plushily, of course, against the dangerous little ears of Jeanette, and at its conclusion Mrs. Peopping’s steel-bead bag, half finished, lay in a huddle at her feet, her pink and flabby face turned reminiscently toward the fire.

“—­and for three days six doctors gave me up.  Why, I didn’t see Jeanette until the fourteenth day, when most women are up and out.  The crisis, you know.  My night nurse, an awful sweet girl—­I send her a Christmas present to this day—­said if I had been six years younger it wouldn’t have gone so hard with me.  I always say if the men knew what we women go through—­Maybe if some of them had to endure the real pain themselves they would have something to do besides walk up and down the hall and turn pale at the smell of ether coming through the keyhole.  Ah me!  I’ve been a great sufferer in my day.”

“Thu, thu, thu,” and, “I could tell tales,” and, “I’ve been through my share”—­from various points of vantage around the speaker.

It was then that Mrs. Jett sat forward on the edge of the straight chair, and put her question.

There was a pause after it had fallen into the silence, as if an intruder had poked her head in through the door, and it brought only the most negligible answer from Mrs. Peopping.

“Forty-three.”

Almost immediately Mrs. Dang caught at the pause for a case in point that had been trembling on her lips all during Mrs. Peopping’s recital.

“A doctor once told a second cousin of my sister-in-law’s—­” and so on ad infinitum, ad lib., and ad nauseaum.

That night Mrs. Jett did an unprecedented thing.  She crept into the crevice of her husband’s arm from behind as he stood in his waistcoat, washing his hands in the carbolic solution at the bowl and washstand.  He turned, surprised, unconsciously placing himself between her and the reeky water.

“Henry,” she said, rubbing up against the alpaca back to his vest like an ingratiating Maltese tabby, “Hen-ery.”

“In a minute, Em,” he said, rather puzzled and wishing she would wait.

Suddenly, swinging herself back from him by his waistcoat lapel, easily, because of his tenseness to keep her clear of the bowl of water, she directed her eyes straight into his.