As I watched the beads of perspiration upon her forehead, and her furtive dabbing at them with her handkerchief, I realized that something must be done. I saw that she would soon be in a condition to receive a chill, which might prove fatal.
Suddenly her imperious voice broke into my thoughts.
"Where is the Long Room of which you spoke? On the second floor?"
"Yes. Would you like to see it?"
"Very much." She rose from her chair, crossed the dining room into the hall and ascended the staircase, and I followed her upward, noting again, with a quick remorsefulness, her slow step, the way she leaned upon the stair rail for support and her quickened breathing as she neared the top. It was a little thing, after all, I told myself sharply, to subordinate my individuality and cater to her whims. I resolved to be more considerate of her in the future. But my native caution made me make a reservation. I would yield to her wishes whenever my self-respect would let me do so. I had a shrewd notion that a person who would cater to every whim of my husband's mother would be little better than a slave.
She spent so much time over the old letters in Washington's handwriting, the snuff boxes and keys and coins with which the cases were filled that I was alarmed lest she should over-tire herself. But I did not dare to venture the suggestion that she should postpone her inspection until another time.
But when I saw her shiver and draw her cloak more closely about her, I resolved to brave her possible displeasure.
"I am afraid you are taking cold," I said, going up to her. "Do you think we had better leave the rest of these things for another visit?"
Her face as she turned it toward me frightened me. It was gray and drawn, and her whole figure was shaking as with the ague.
"I am afraid I am going to be ill," she said faintly. "I am so cold."