Four
II t was, I think, about a week later, that Partridge informed me that Mrs. Baker¹ would like to speak to me for a minuteor two if I would be so kind.
The name Mrs. Baker conveyed nothing at all to me.
“Who is Mrs. Baker?” I said, bewildered—“Can’t she see Miss Joanna?”
But it appeared that I was the person with whom an interview was desired. It further transpired² that Mrs. Baker wasthe mother of the girl Beatrice.
I had forgotten Beatrice. For a fortnight now, I had been conscious of a middle-aged³ woman with wisps of greyhair, usually on her knees retreating crablike⁴ from bathroom and stairs and passages when I appeared, and I knew, Isuppose, that she was our new Daily Woman. Otherwise the Beatrice complication had faded from my mind.
I could not very well refuse to see Beatrice’s mother, especially as I learned that Joanna was out, but I was, I mustconfess, a little nervous at the prospect⁵. I sincerely hoped that I was not going to be accused of having trifled withBeatrice’s affections. I cursed the mischievous⁶ activities of anonymous⁷ letter writers to myself at the same time as,aloud, I commanded that Beatrice’s mother should be brought to my presence.
Mrs. Baker was a big broad weather-beaten woman with a rapid flow of speech. I was relieved to notice no signs ofanger or accusation⁸.
“I hope, sir,” she said, beginning at once when the door had closed behind Partridge, “that you’ll excuse the libertyI’ve taken in coming to see you. But I thought, sir, as you was the proper person to come to, and I should be thankfulif you could see your way to telling me what I ought to do in the circumstances, because in my opinion, sir, somethingought to be done, and I’ve never been one to let the grass grow under my feet, and what I say is, no use moaning andgroaning, but ‘Up and doing’ as vicar said in his sermon only the week before last.”

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