scarcely knew to begin with. She shocked Margaret’s old-fashioned soul by putting into her arms a baby that was wearing no flannel, whose feet were bare and kicking, whose dress was no longer than the feet. It seemed to Margaret Cameron the only thing Mrs. Meredith did that had been done to old-fashioned babies was to watch that the little eyes were screened, that strong lights did not penetrate.
Margaret lifted her voice in protest.
“Where are his flannels?” she said, and Mrs. Meredith spread a pair of expressive hands in a gesture that both Margaret and Jamie recognized immediately.
“There ain’t going to be no flannels!” she laughingly quoted. “California babies have graduated from flannel. It’s too hot for them and chafes their delicate skins and makes them fret and cry.”
Then she sat down on the davenport and opened up the baby basket she had brought and displayed the implements she used in the morning toilet of James Lewis MacFarlane, Junior.
Margaret sat and stared. She listened to what was said. She watched what was done. She looked the baby over and then slowly shook her head.
“Jamie,” she said, “if I take this child and try to take care of him in this way and he dies, are you going to hold it against me?”
Jamie and Mrs. Meredith laughed unrestrainedly.
“No,” promised Jamie, “I won’t lay it up against you, and since Mrs. Meredith seems to have had fine success
