"Yes, sir!" she said quickly. "They are!"
"Ever think I'd have twins, roistering twins?" said Carlotta, looking at me.
"I never did," said I.
"Ask Luke whether it's bad luck or bad management," she said, with that schoolgirl's snirt of laughter, looking up apprehensively at her husband.
"Oh, I!" he said, turning suddenly and speaking loud, in his wounded voice. "I call it amazing good luck, myself! Don't know what other people think about it." Yet he had the fine, wincing fear in his body, of an injured dog.
After that, for years I did not see her again. I heard she had a baby girl. Then a catastrophe happened: both the twins were killed in a motor-car accident in America, motoring with their aunt.
I learned the news late, and did not write to Carlotta. What could I say?
A few months later, crowning disaster, the baby girl died of some sudden illness. The Lathkill ill-luck seemed to be working surely.
Poor Carlotta! I had no further news of her, only I heard that she and Lord Lathkill were both living in seclusion, with his mother, at the place in Derbyshire.
When circumstances brought me to England, I debated within myself, whether I should write or not to Carlotta. At last I sent a note to the London address.