She led her into the next room. Annette, hastening with a glass of wine and the smelling salts, caught the young lady's arm.
“She isn't going to be ill, seriously sick, is she?” she demanded. “You don't think she is. It would be dreadful if she was.”
Gertrude shook her head.
“I don't know,” she answered. “I certainly hope not. Will you call a carriage, Mrs. Black?”
“Yes, yes, I'll call one right away. Oh, I hope she isn't going to be sick. It would be dreadful—just now. The election is only two weeks off, and without her I—we should be almost certain to lose. I know we should. Oh, Serena, DEAR! you WON'T be sick, will you? for my sake!”
It did not seem to occur to the agitated Annette that her friend might not care to be ill, for her own sake. But it was evident that Gertrude was thinking just that. The young lady's tone was sharp and decidedly cold.
“She is tired out,” she said. “She has worn herself out working for her—for her friends, Mrs. Black. Will you call the carriage?”
“Yes, yes. They are calling it now. I'm so sorry the chauffeur—or—or Phelps—is out. If he—if they were not you could use our car. But, oh, Serena—”
Serena looked up. She was calmer now, she had heard, and loyally she answered.
“Don't worry, Annette,” she said. “I am not going to be sick. I won't. You can depend on me. Oh, Gertie, I'm SO tired! My poor head!”