She tiptoed into Marjorie’s room, and sat down by her bedside. The sick girl looked up and smiled, assuring her that she felt better.
“You ought to go out somewhere this evening, Queenie,” she whispered. “Put on my violet-gray voile that you like so much, and go to the movies.”
“Oh, Miss Wilkinson, I couldn’t enjoy a show with you home here sick!” she protested.
“But if I insist?” asked Marjorie.
Before she could reply, Mrs. Wilkinson entered the room softly, making sure that her daughter was awake before she ventured to speak.
“Mr. Richards is here, Marjorie, asking for you. I told him Queenie was with you, and that she would come down if he liked. He seemed very much pleased—so run along, dear. You need a change!”
“Why, I’d love to,” admitted Queenie, trying not to appear too eager. “If—if—Miss Wilkinson wants me to.”
“By all means,” replied Marjorie. “And slip on my dress, Queenie—and take my gray cloak, so you can go out if you want to.”
“Thanks ever so much!” said Queenie, stooping to kiss Marjorie’s finger tips. “If anybody sees me, they’ll think it’s you—revived in short order.”
Within five minutes she was down in the living room greeting her caller.