Chiswick went reluctantly. She was a lover of duty, and she had but one desire in life, to see Marjorie keep to her schedule.
Mrs. Fielding and Marjorie had a good time that afternoon. Marjorie learned to put her arms around her mother's neck and to lay her face close against her mother's face, but Chiswick wandered up and down before the house disconsolately.
When she was let in she threw off her hat and dashed at Marjorie greedily. She took her pulse eight times in succession and refused supper because she wanted to get so many respirations and temperatures that she had no time to eat.
She was just settling down to a nicely scientific evening when Mr. Fielding entered the nursery. Mr. Fielding feared Chiswick as much as he feared Mrs. Fielding. He cast one glance at Marjorie, sweet and clean in her nightgown, and another at the door, and then smiled at Chiswick. It was a guileful smile.
“Chiswick,” he said, “it is a beautiful evening.”
“Is it, sir?” she asked, coldly.
“Beautiful,” he returned with great enthusiasm. “Beautiful! I never saw a finer night—outside.”
“You don't say!” she remarked, but her voice expressed the deepest unconcern for the weather. Mr. Fielding moved toward Marjorie. Chiswick quietly slipped between them.
“My!” Mr. Fielding exclaimed. “You are not looking at all well yourself, Chiswick. You are overworking. I don't know what Mrs. Fielding can be thinking about to let you wear yourself out so. You are so faithful, so—”
Chiswick shook her head.