"You mean she ought to. But she won't."
"She's got to be made to," Roger growled. "This summer at least." Baird shook his head.
"You forget her fresh air work," he replied. "She has three thousand children on her mind. The city will be like a furnace, of course, and the children must be sent to camps. If you don't see the necessity, go and talk to her, and then you will."
"But you can forbid it, can't you?"
"No. Can you?"
"I can try," snapped Roger.
"Let's try what's possible," said Baird. "Let's try to keep her in bed three days."
"Sounds modest," Roger grunted. And a glimmer of amusement came into Baird's impassive eyes.
"Try it," he drawled. "By to-morrow night she'll ask for her stenographer. She'll make you think she is out of the woods. But she won't be, please remember that. A few years more," he added, "and she'll have used up her vitality. She'll be an old woman at thirty-five."
"It's got to be stopped!" cried Roger.