Leslie sat motionless, bearing the weight of the tired girl’s head on her shoulder. Marjorie slept for about ten minutes, then with a violent start she looked up, saw Leslie, and clutched hold of her with a fierce strain.
“Oh, I have had such an awful dream,” she said. “I thought you were here, but that you would not stay, and that Eileen was lying on the bed dead, and that you would not let me touch her. Oh, I am glad it was a
dream, and that you are here. You will stay now, won’t you? I can just bear to be away from Eileen when you are here, for you are not like others; you seem to understand. Will you go and find mother, and ask her to let you stay with me?”
“Could we not ring the bell and tell the servant, and perhaps your mother would come here?”
“But I won’t have her in the room; she does worry me so dreadfully.”
“She is in great trouble, too,” said Leslie. “You ought to be kind to her, Marjorie.”
“Oh, don’t begin to lecture me; I can’t stand it. You must let me have my own way now, whatever happens in the future. You have come here of your own will, and go you shan’t.”
“I will stay with you if it will really comfort you,” said Leslie. “What you want more than anything else is a long, quiet sleep, and you must have it. Lie down; I will go and find your mother.”
Marjorie flopped down again on the bed, seized the pillow, clasped it in her arms, and buried her head in it.
Leslie unlocked the door and went out. On the landing a faint smell of carbolic and eau-de-Cologne greeted her. She stood for a moment hesitating. As she did so, a nurse came out of the sick-room.