"You need not think I'm overcome with grief," she said, when Grace peeped round the door. "And don't whisper, and don't be tenderly tactful. I'm in bed of an aching body, not a broken heart."
"And a sharp tongue, I should think. Let me look at it. Oh, that's all right."
"No, it isn't. I don't believe you know anything about it. It's that colour because I've been eating those pink lozenges that Uncle George keeps in his waistcoat pocket. There are knives sticking into me everywhere."
Grace seated herself on the bed, and eyed her with the judicial air befitting one who is a mother. "You've taken cold," she said soothingly.
"I have indeed. I'm surrounded by hot-water bottles, and I can't get warm. It seems to be a mistake to stand on the doorstep in one's nightgown."
"What on earth did you do that for?"
"I'm trying to find out. I don't know whether I was asleep or awake, but there I was. I must have been awake, for I can remember running down the stairs. I had to do it."
With a little crease between her brows Grace said easily: "You must have been over-tired."
"That's a comfortable solution. We'll leave it at that. Would you mind tucking the clothes into my back? No, don't touch my pillows. How nice you look! Like a pretty apple. Can you stay with me?"
"No, dear; I'm going to a lesson. Would you like Baby?"