No More Learning

"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 help me, please? "

He had reason for the last sentence. Mrs. Hauksbee had thrown herself
into Mrs. Delville's arms, where she was weeping bitterly, and Mrs.
Bent
was unpicturesquely mixed up with both, while from the 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, mopping
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 in an hour of need, and was even
beginning to direct the affairs of the world as before.

"So nobody died, and everything went off as it should, and I kissed The
Dowd, Polly. I feel so old.