“I don't want no outing,” she said, sullenly. “I've had one. I don't need no more. I'm well.”
“Really,” said Mr. Fielding, “a little run in this fresh evening air would do wonders for you; wonders! It would quite set you up again. You must think of your health, Chiswick.” He eyed Marjorie longingly.
“No, thank you,” said Chiswick. “I'll try to get along.”
“Chiswick!” said Mr. Fielding. “I insist. You may neglect your health if you wish, but I cannot. What would Marjorie do if you should get sick—and die? I insist that you must go out for a little constitutional. Say for two hours, or three, if you wish.”
Chiswick balked and Mr. Fielding gently put his hand against her shoulder and pushed her to the door. She gave a last longing glance backward into the nursery and went. For two hours she sat desolately on the horse block and then sadly entered the house with a cold in her head.
Marjorie was asleep, but when she heard Chiswick's tread she sighed and held up one soft hand. Chiswick clasped it—and took her pulse.
The next morning Miss Vickers looked up from her task of filling in the record cards for the previous day and smiled at Chiswick. It was unusual, for they were not the best of friends, and Chiswick hardened instantly.
“I'm looking sick, ain't I?” she said, defiantly. “I need air, don't I? I'll lose my complexion if I don't go out and sit a few hours on that stone horse block, won't I? Huh! Not for you! No, mam, I'll out in the afternoon for Mrs. Fielding, and I'll out in the evening for Mr. Fielding, if I have to, but I won't out in no morning for no private secretary. Not much?”
“I only thought,” said Miss Vickers, sweetly, “that perhaps you'd like to take a little fresh air. I don't mind tending Marjorie, if you would.”
“I wouldn't,” said Chiswick, shortly.