She pushed the infant almost into Brock’s face.  He did not observe that it was a beautiful child and that it had a look of terror in its eyes; he only knew that he was glaring wildly at the fiendish nurse, the truth slowly beating its way into his be-addled brain.  For a full minute he stared as if petrified.  Then, administering a sickly grin, he sought to bring his wits up to the requirements of the extraordinary situation.  He lifted his hand and mumbled:  “Come, Raggles!  I haven’t a biscuit, but here, have a roll, do.  Give me a—­a kiss!” He added the last in most heroic surrender.

The nurse and the maid stared hard at him; the baby turned in affright to cling closely to the neck of the former.

“Good Lord, sir,” whispered the nurse, with a nervous glance about her; “this ain’t Raggles, sir. This is a baby.”

“Do you think I’m blind, madam?” whispered he, savagely.  “I can see it’s a baby, but I didn’t know there was to be one.  Its father didn’t mention it to me.”

“It’s a wise father that knows his own child,” said the nurse, with prompt sarcasm.

“I think they should have prepared me for this,” growled he.  “Is it supposed to be mine?  Does—­does Mrs. Medcroft know about it?”

“You mean, about the baby, sir?  Of course she does.  It’s hers.  Please don’t look so odd, sir.  My word, sir, I didn’t know you didn’t know it, sir.  I wasn’t told, was I, O’Brien?  There, sir, you see!  Mrs. Medcroft said as I was to bring Tootles in to you, sir.  She said—­”

“Tootles?” murmured Brock.  “Tootles and Raggles.  I daresay there’s a distinction without much of a difference.  Are you Burton?”

“Yes, Mr. Medcroft.  The nurse.  Won’t you take baby for a minute, sir?  Just to get acquainted, and for appearance’s sake.”  She whispered the well-meant entreaty.  Brock, now well into the spirit of the situation, obligingly extended his arms.  The baby set up a lusty howl of aversion.

“For God’s sake, take him back to his mother!” groaned Brock hastily.  “He doesn’t like strangers!  Take him away!”

“It isn’t a he, sir,” whispered the maid, as the nurse prepared to beat a hasty retreat with the Medcroft offspring.  “It’s a her, sir.”

Brock’s face was a study in perplexity as they hurried from the car.

“By George,” he muttered, “what next!”

That which did come next was even more amazing than the unexpected advent of Tootles.  He barely had recovered his equanimity—­with his coffee—­when a young lady entered the car.  That, of itself, was not much to speak of, but what followed was something that not even he could have dreamed of if he had been given the chance.  He afterward recalled, in some distress of mind, that his second quick glance at the newcomer developed into little less than a rude stare of admiration.  Small wonder, let it be advanced in his defence.