So they seized a towel each and enveloped the sawdust bodies tenderly. It was agreed to be impossible to put them in the little bed against the wall after such an eventful night, so were snuggled down in their own bed, into which they crept once more.
“Ugh, how wet your hair is!” Dolly said, as Phyl’s damp light curls brushed her face again.
Then she sat up in dismay.
“You oughtn’t to have gone, Phyl,” she said; [19] ]“you’ll go and get another cold, and have to stay in bed.”
Phyl recollected her troublesome chest for the first time.
“Oh, I’ll dry my head and then I’ll be all right,” she said easily, and gave her hair a rub or two with the towel, that acted—both before and after the operation—as Suey’s night-gown.
But Dorothy was feeling still disturbed, for had she not promised her mother to help to look after this delicate Phyl and keep her from danger? She slipped out of bed once more, and went to the mantel-piece where stood the bottle of cod-liver oil, with which they had built Phyl up after her last attack.
“I won’t,” Phyl said, in a stormy whisper as the nauseous bottle was thrust before her.
“Oh, go on,” said Dorothy, “you’ll have a fwightful cold if you don’t, and wemember how fwitened mama gets.”
Phyl