“I—just felt terribly tired—all of a sudden,” she said. There was a suggestion of surrender in her voice; as though the barriers of reserve were breaking down. “That’s all, Wint; I’m just tired.”
“You need a rest,” Wint agreed. “You’ve been plugging away, taking care of us, for a long time, now. Come in and lie down on the couch in the dining room.”
Hetty shook her head in a frightened little way; the bravado was going out of her. She seemed very helpless and feminine. “No, no,” she protested. “I’ll be all right as soon as I rest a little. Do run along, Wint.”
Wint put his hand on her forehead. “There’s more than just being tired the matter with you. You’re sick, Hetty. Your head’s hot. I’ll tell you, you go up and go to bed, and I’ll clean up down here. I’m a champion dish washer.”
Hetty laughed wearily. “You’re a champion decent boy, Wint,” she said. “But you’ll just have to let me alone. There’s nothing you can do for me.”
“I can see that you go up to bed.”
“No, no; I’m all right. Nearly.”
Wint started for the door. “I’m going to telephone for a doctor,” he declared. “You’re sick, Hetty. That’s the plain English of it. I’m going to telephone.”
She had moved so swiftly that she startled him; moved after him, caught his arm, shook it fiercely. “You’ll not telephone for any one, do you hear?” she told him hotly. “You let me alone, Wint. What do I want with a doctor!”
Wint was honestly uneasy about her. He said: “Then let me call mother. She’s a good hand to make sick people well. She—”