‘Of course he is,’ agreed Sheila hastily. ‘How silly of me! But he is different. You mustn’t mix him up with these others.’
When some working agreement in this delicate matter had been reached, they went to the beach together to dig sand castles and tell each other stories: an idyllic experience, type of many shared during this magical holiday.
4
Then upon the smooth sands of this quietude Terror planted his ugly hoof. Rosemary was seized with illness. Unaccountably, in spite of Sheila’s lavish care, she had caught a dangerous chill.
Sheila locked up the house, and ran, already feverish with anxiety, to Mrs. Boddy. She arrived breathless, to find that amiable woman with her arms up to the elbows in soapy water.
‘It’s Rosemary—she’s ill,’ gasped Sheila. ‘Please fetch someone quickly.’ She dropped into the nearest chair, breathing hard.
The red hands leaped out of the wash-tub and were rubbed on an immaculate white apron.
‘Pore lamb!’ cried Mrs. Boddy. ‘What’s wrong with her?’
Sheila was now upon her feet again, her breath recovered. ‘I don’t quite know. She caught cold yesterday. I doctored her as best I could. But this morning she’s worse—breathing badly and almost delirious. Please go at once. She’s alone in the house—I’m going back.’
The vision of the sick child calling in vain for its mother stabbed Sheila to an impossible speed. After running a few hundred yards she was overtaken and picked up by a man driving a trap.