The Kid was sitting up in bed eating her supper when Elizabeth, Henry and I burst breathlessly into her room. Her face was shining with quiet contentment.
'Look, Mama, dear,' she said, 'at the beautiful baked custard Elizabeth has made for my supper. Wasn't it kind of her?'
I snatched the custard away from her grasp. 'Don't eat another mouthful,' I panted, 'you're going to have an emetic. You must be sick at once.'
Mutely questioning inexorable Fate, she raised large, contemplative eyes to mine. 'Must I, Mama? Can't I finish my custard first?'
There is about The Kid's character a stoic philosophy, blended, since she has known Elizabeth, with a certain fatalism. Her habit of saying 'Must I?' when faced with a disagreeable duty, indicates her outlook on life. If those in authority declare she must, then there is no more to be said about it. They represent Fate in action. She now yielded up the custard with a sigh, but obediently drank the mixture I handed her. There was a pause.
'How are you feeling, dear?' I inquired.
'Quite well, thank you, Mama, dear. May I have my custard now?'
'You ought not to be feeling well,' I said, puzzled. 'You'd better have some more drops.'
'Oh, must I, Mama?'
'Yes, dear. Drink this.' I now gave her a slightly larger dose. There was a still longer pause, and Henry, Elizabeth and I waited for her to speak, or express emotion of some sort. At last she opened her lips and said, 'May I have——'