"My dear," she said gently to Roger, going up to him and putting her hand on his shoulder, "I had the same symptoms that you have—the same that poor Charles had. This is a dreadful epidemic; no one is safe. But look at me—I escaped it, I am perfectly well. Why? Because I took the anti-toxin."
"Of course, Roger," his aunt urged eagerly. "You must let the doctor see you at once; you mustn't waste a minute!"
"You think I ought to have typhoid anti-toxin, do you?"
Thérèse shrugged her shoulders again very slightly before replying, "I think so, naturally. But I should leave it to the doctor. He'll advise you."
Roger turned to Esther.
"What do you think about it, Miss Rowe?" he asked. "Would you have it if you were I?"
"The anti-toxin? Oh—that is something you must decide."
Why on earth did she make such an inane reply? She saw Lady Clifford smile a little and raise her eyebrows, as if amused by what she considered a stupid conversation. The old lady merely looked troubled.
"Well," remarked Roger, rising, "you women may think what you like, but there's one thing I never have been able to stand the thought of, and that is having a needle stuck into me."
"My dear, that's simply childish," his aunt chid him mildly. "It's only a tiny prick."