She bent over the water, and, while she washed, Mrs. Talcott, with deliberate skill, made up the bed. Karen sank in a chair.
"You poor thing," said Mrs. Talcott, turning to her as she smoothed down the sheet; "Why you're green. Sit right there and I'll undress you. Yes; you're only fit to be put to bed."
She spoke with mild authority, and Karen, under her hands, relapsed to childhood.
"This all the baggage you've brought?" Mrs. Talcott inquired, finding a nightdress in Karen's dressing-case. She expressed no surprise when Karen said that it was all, passed the nightdress over her head and, when she had lain down, tucked the bed-clothes round her.
"Now what you want is a hot-water bottle and some dinner. I guess you're hungry. Did you have any lunch on the train?"
"I've had some chocolate and a bun and some milk, oh yes, I had enough," said Karen faintly, raising her hand to her forehead; "but I must be hungry; for my head aches so badly. How kind you are, Mrs. Talcott."
"You lie right there and I'll bring you some dinner." Mrs. Talcott was swiftly tidying the room.
"But what of yours, Mrs. Talcott? Isn't it your dinner-time?"
"I've had my supper. I have supper early these days."
Karen dimly reflected, when she was gone, that this was an innovation. Whoever Madame von Marwitz's guests, Mrs. Talcott had, until now, always made an acte de présence at every meal. She was tired and not feeling well enough after her illness, she thought.