Then she closed her eyes, and he didn’t dare to disturb her repose by asking questions.
He was not afraid of Miss Banks, however.
“Can’t you help me?” he demanded. “Just tell me what to do, if you’re too high and mighty to do anything yourself. I’m hungry. I don’t know how to cook anything.”
“I always said you were spoiled,” said Miss Banks. “You’re a perfect baby. You can’t even feed yourself!”
“My share is to provide the money,” Paul began, when a horrible idea came to him.
It was one thing to provide money for the thrifty and ingenious Christine, but a trained nurse, a servant, and doctors’ bills! He didn’t care so much about dinner now. He ate some bread and butter, while he did some constructive and intensive thinking.
He came home the next evening, earlier than usual, bringing with him a cook—a masterful and unscrupulous woman who saw his deplorable plight and intended to take the fullest advantage of it. Still, she did go to market, and she did cook dinner; and if he paid an exorbitant price for the privilege of eating a collection of the dishes he most disliked, he was nevertheless grateful.
He sat down at the table with the nurse and Miss Banks, and he was in a better humor than he had been for weeks. Christine, upstairs, heard his cheerful voice and his laugh, and tears came into her eyes, although she smiled.
He came up later to sit beside her, and he was so affectionate, so genuinely concerned on her behalf, that her heart smote her.
“All this is a horribly heavy burden for you, Paul,” she said.