Gwendolyn blushed rosy. A flea! It was an insect that Miss Royle had never permitted her to mention. Still—
"But—but where could we—er—find—a—a—?"
She had stammered that far when she saw the little old gentleman turn his wrinkled face over a shoulder. Next, he jerked an excited thumb. And looking, she saw that Jane was failing to keep up.
By now the nurse had swelled to astonishing proportions. Her body was as round as a barrel. Her face was round too, and more red than ever. Her cheeks were so puffed, the skin of her forehead was so tight and shiny, that she looked precisely like a monster copy of a sanitary rubber doll!
"She can't last much longer! Her strength's giving out." It was the Policeman. And his voice ended in a sob. (Yet the sob meant nothing, for he was showing all his white teeth in a delighted smile.)
"She must have help!"—this the Man-Who-Makes-Faces. His voice broke, too. But his round, dark eyes were brimming with laughter.
"Who'll help her?" demanded Gwendolyn. "Nobody. So one of that three is gone for good!"
She halted now—on the summit of a rise. Up this, but at a considerable distance, Jane was toiling, with feeble hops to the right, and staggering steps to the left, and faint, fat gasps.
"Oh, Gwendolyn darlin'!" she called weepingly. "Oh, don't leave your Jane! Oh! Oh!"
"I've made up my mind," announced Gwendolyn, "to have the nurse-maid in the brick house. So, good-by—good-by."