"Look here, M." she said, argumentatively, standing by the bed. "You're in hysterics. That's what's the matter with you."
"I know I am," came in tones of muffled despair from the pillow.
"Well!" Tims was very stern and accented her words heavily, "then—pull—yourself—together—dear girl. Sit up!"
Milly sat up, pressed her handkerchief over her face, and held her breath. For a minute all was quiet; then another violent sob forced a passage.
"It's no use, Tims," she gasped. "I cannot—cannot—stop. Oh, what would—!" She was going to say, "What would Aunt Beatrice think of me if she knew how I was giving way!" but a fresh flood of tears suppressed her speech. "My head's so bad! Such a splitting headache!"
Tims tried scolding, slapping, a cold sponge, every remedy inexperience could suggest, but the hysterical weeping could not be checked.
"Look here, old girl," she said at length, "I know how I can stop you, but I don't believe you'll let me do it."
"No, not that, Tims! You know Miss Burt doesn't—"
"Doesn't approve. Of course not. Perhaps you think old B. would approve of the way you're going on now. Ha! Would she!"
The sarcasm caused a new and alarming outburst. But finally, past all respect for Miss Burt, and even for Lady Thomson herself, Milly consented to submit to any remedy that Tims might choose to try.