‘He’s a silly, fretful boy,’ said Isobel emphatically, when, after listening to a detailed account of the beauties of Mrs Seton-Kinaird’s house, and the wonderful playroom full of marvellous toys that Cedric possessed, Vivian had asked her what kind of boy he was. ‘He is always grumbling about something. Just now it is because his mother and he are going away to Egypt, to live on the Nile in a boat, and do no lessons. Catch me grumbling if Dr Robson said that I was to do that. Only think of having no lessons to do, and seeing the Sphinx and the Pyramids!’
‘Ah, but my girlie, you are quite well, and don’t know what it is to be always tired and have bad headaches, as poor Cedric has,’ said Mrs Osbourne, who had overheard the last remark. ‘It is one thing having a holiday when one is strong and able to enjoy it, and another thing to have to take one when one is too tired to find pleasure in anything.’
Isobel coloured at the gentle tone of reproof, and thought rather rebelliously that if her mother only knew how her head was aching at that moment, or what queer little jerks of pain had been running up and down her back for the last two days, she would not have spoken like that, but would think her a brave girl for running about and making so little fuss. Then, next moment, being a conscientious little mortal, and having a habit of looking her faults straight in the face, she owned to herself that she was only making no fuss because they were all going to the Hippodrome that evening with father, a very great treat indeed, for Mr Osbourne was generally too busy to pay much attention to the children, and she knew that if she told her mother how funny she felt, she would probably make her stay quietly at home and go early to bed.
So she held her tongue like a Spartan, although her head grew worse and worse, and went to the Hippodrome along with the others. But by that time the pain was almost unbearable, and the glare of the electric light hurt her eyes so badly that sometimes she could hardly help crying out. She was glad to change seats with Ralph, and sit close to a pillar which he declared spoilt his view, and lean her burning head against it, for it felt nice and cool, and its shadow shielded her eyes from the light.
If her mother had been there she would have noticed the poor child’s discomfort; but being, as she had laughingly said before they started, too old for entertainments of that kind, except when she was needed as a chaperone, she had gone to sit for a few hours with poor old Miss Osbourne, whose bronchitis did not as yet show any signs of improvement. As it was, when the merry party returned full of excitement at all the wonderful things they had seen—the performing seals, and dancing goats, and the cyclist who rode a bicycle along a tight-rope with his hands tied behind him, the little girl’s flushed cheeks and bright eyes passed unnoticed; and when, next morning, she felt too sick and queer to get up, and had to confess how badly her head ached, her mother did not feel at all anxious, thinking that the excitement and the late hours had been too much for her, and that a day spent quietly in bed, with nothing to eat but bread-and-milk, would soon put matters right again.
CHAPTER VIII.
THE BROKEN WINDOWS.
‘I HOPE you won’t be lonely, Pussy,’ said Mrs Osbourne, looking into Isobel’s bedroom for a moment on her way to dress for church. ‘I would have stayed at home with you myself if it had not been New Year’s Day. You know how father likes us all to be at church together to begin the New Year, and Claude could not go if I did not, and he would be so disappointed. He had his little red prayer-book laid out before breakfast.’