“You are looking very ill yourself, my dear child,” said Dr Johnson.
“Never mind me,” I said, turning away impatiently.
“But I must and will mind you,” retorted our fussy little family doctor. “Dr Keith, there is not a more admirable girl in the land than Rosamund Lindley.”
Dr Keith bowed an acknowledgment of my merits. Then he took his watch out of his pocket.
“I really must catch the next train,” he said. “Good-bye, Miss Lindley. Johnson will go into the particulars of our proposed treatment with you; but remember above all things, no worry. As much cheerfulness as you can possibly manage; a generous diet, the best champagne—I have ordered a special brand—and—and—I think we’ll do. In all probability in about a fortnight Mrs Lindley will be well enough to be moved by easy stages to Cannes. Good-bye, Miss Lindley; keep up a brave heart.”
Dr Keith went cheerfully out of the room. Perhaps he imagined that he had given me excellent advice. Perhaps he had, if I could only have acted on it. I rushed away to my room, bathed my face and hands, put on slippers which made no sound, and my prettiest afternoon dress. Then on tip-toe I went across the landing to my mother’s room; on tip-toe my father was coming up the stairs.
“Well, Rosamund, you have seen the doctors?”
“Yes, father.”
“You know what they wish?”
“Yes, father.”