“I’m worried about you,” Dick said, as they took the long ribbon of road that unfurled in the direction of Yonkers, and Nancy removed her hat to let the breeze cool her distracted brow. His man Williams, was driving.
“Well, don’t tell me so,” she answered a trifle ungraciously.
“Miss Dear is cross to-day,” Sheila explained. “The milk did not come for Gaspard to make the poor people’s custard, crême renversé, he makes—deliciously good, and we give it to the clerking girls.”
“The buttermilk cultures were bad,” Nancy said. “And I wasn’t able to get any of the preparations of it, that I can trust. There are one 187 or two people that ought to have it every day and their complexions show it if they don’t.”
“I suppose so,” Dick said, with a grimace.
“These people who have worked in New York all summer have run pretty close to their margin of energy. You’ve no idea what a difference a few calories make to them, or how closely I have to watch them, and when I have to substitute an article of diet for the thing they’ve been used to, it’s awfully hard to get them to take it.”
“I should think it might be,” Dick said. “It’s true about people who have worked in New York all summer, though. I have—and you have.”
“Oh! I’m all right,” Nancy said.
“So am I,” Sheila said, “and so is Monsieur Dick, n’est-ce pas?”
“Vraiment, Mademoiselle.”