"It must be awful," said Marjorie, "to be a cook and have your little boy ill, and no time to attend to him, because you have to cook for other people."
Delight stared at her.
"I think the awful part," she said, "is to have your cook's baby get ill, so she can't cook your dinner."
"Delight, that is selfish, and I don't think you ought to talk so."
"I don't think it's selfish to want the services of your own servants. That's what you have them for,—to cook and work for you. They oughtn't to let their little boys get sick."
"I don't suppose they do it on purpose," said Midge, half laughing and half serious; "but I'm sorry for your cook anyway."
"I'm sorry for us! But, gracious, Marjorie, hear her cry! The little boy must be awfully sick!"
"Yes, indeed! She's just screaming! Shall we go down?"
"No, I'm sure mother wouldn't like us to. But I don't feel like playing princess, do you?"
"No, not while she screams like that. There goes the doctor away."