“You may stay there, you horrid thing,” she said. Her gloves were treated in the same manner. She looked down at the bows on her dress and began unfastening them.
“I hate them,” she said. “Mother called them pretty. I hate them!”
“What’s the good of undressing yourself in that fashion?” said Ethel.
“She had the beginning of the attack when I was with her,” said Molly. “I am worse than you, Nesta, worse than you, Ethel, for you did not see her. I gave her some sal volatile, and she got sleepy, and I put a shawl over her and left her. I am worse than either of you.”
“Well,” said Ethel, rousing herself, “I don’t believe it is as bad as this. I don’t think it can be. I’ll go up and find out.”
She went out of the room, but she tottered very badly as she went up the stairs, glancing behind her as though fearful of her own shadow. There was a light in the spare room; the door was partly open. She peeped in. Dr Anstruther was there. He was pacing up and down.
“Ah!” he said, when he saw Ethel’s face. “Come in.”
He looked at her again, and then said quietly—“Sit down.”
He went to the table, poured something into a glass, mixed it with water, and brought it to the girl.
“Drink this,” he said.