Tears filled her eyes.
“If I go back, they’ll send him to one of their schools, and he isn’t fit for it—he isn’t fit for it.”
That impassioned conviction was still there, as vehemently as on the night when she had confronted the Aviolets in the drawing-room after dinner, and had made her scene. But Cecil’s illness, and his wistful and unconscious resignation to the lack of those material comforts of which Squires was so prodigal, caused Rose to suffer a new misery of uncertainty.
In the morning, she asked Felix to go for the doctor.
“I’ll stop on my way to fetch the milk, Mrs. Aviolet. How is he?”
“All right, thank goodness. Only just a little bit hoarse, and coughing the tiniest bit. It was all that rotten fog; he isn’t a bit delicate really, and he’s never had croup in his life before.”
She repeated this to the doctor when he came, a common, overworked little man, who barely listened to her.
“All right, all right. He may get another attack about the same time to-night—or he may not. If he does, make him sick—that’ll cut it short. Croup isn’t dangerous, so you needn’t be frightened. Keep him indoors while this weather lasts.”
“In bed?”
“What for? He’s all right, you know. These attacks are nasty while they last, but there’s nothing to make a fuss about. Good-morning, Mrs.—er—H’m.”