“Will you let me attend to that?”
Floyd thanked her, hoped she wouldn’t bother too much, put his car at her disposal, then followed her softly up the stairs, feeling that he had managed the house very well. Julie was asleep.
“Do you think I could go to the club for a couple of hours—that is, if I’m not wanted?”
“Oh yes, go; it will do you good. Take the latch key and come in as quietly as possible.”
The next morning Floyd enjoyed a good breakfast, waited on by a very pretty girl in black, with a dainty cap and apron. He had never liked a waitress—too much like a tearoom, but Ellen, the new maid, didn’t give him a chance to miss the butler; she hovered around watching Miss Mary, responding to her quick glances. This amused Floyd. Martin must come to dinner; he’d fire off witticisms about being under petticoat government.
Ellen was a girl-mother; her sweetheart promised to marry her, but he didn’t. Miss Mary saw her through her trouble, took her baby to Bridget, the wife of a coal heaver, who had seven babies. Mary encouraged Bridget to go on having them, but the cost of living was too high even for a coal heaver. She took the poor “bastard” to her wonderful bosom, and nursed it, happy because she didn’t have to dry up her milk. Mary put Bridget in the kitchen, Ellen in the dining-room; the little brat was smuggled in, and was so quiet, Mary was sure he knew he wasn’t wanted. She put a neighbor who was also “under obligations” in charge of the seven babies.
Floyd was allowed to go in every morning and sit with his wife; he noticed Mary remained in the room. He said the same thing, mechanically, every time.
“You feel better this morning, don’t you?” The atmosphere of the sick room struck him dumb; that ghostly silent creature lying there wasn’t Julie.
He sat at the breakfast table—well cooked, well served. There was a flutter on the stairs. Mary flew in and sat opposite him, giving him a quick glance.
“Miss Mary, we should have a night nurse.”