"Sick," said the baby hoarsely. The next instant he tossed up his hands and went through a spasm, trying to breathe. It passed, he relaxed a little, and again stared solemnly at his aunt. "Sick," he repeated. "Wery sick."
Deborah sat silent. The child had another fight for his breath; and this time as he did so, Deborah's body contracted, too. A few moments later Edith came in. Deborah returned downstairs, and for over an hour she sat by herself. Roger was in his study, Betsy and George had gone to bed. The night nurse arrived and was taken upstairs. Still Deborah's mind felt numb and cold. Instinctively again and again it kept groping toward one point: "If I had a baby as sick as that, what would I do? What would I do?"
When the doorbell rang again, she frowned, rose quickly and went to the door. It was Allan.
"Allan—come in here, will you?" she said, and he followed her into the living room.
"What is it?" he inquired.
"Bruce is worse."
"Oh—I'm sorry. Why didn't Edith let me know?"
"She had Lake to-night," said Deborah. He knitted his brows in annoyance, then smiled.
"Well, I don't mind that," he replied. "I'm rather glad. She'll feel easier now. What did he tell her?"
"He seemed to consider it serious—by the number of things he ordered."