“I’ll take the lounge, so as to be ready to get up the moment mother wants me, or Mr. Lansing comes,” she said.
She took the lounge, which was so wide and comfortable, and the cushions were so soft, and she was so tired, that she fell into a heavy sleep, from which she did not waken until it was dark, and she heard voices in the next room. Fred Lansing and a stranger were talking together, and the latter, who she guessed was a physician, said:
“I hope it is nothing more serious than nervous prostration and extreme exhaustion, caused by severe sea-sickness. After a few days’ rest you can safely take her to London. I will send a good nurse, if you wish it.”
They were talking of her mother, she knew, and in a moment she was in the room, looking at Fred Lansing with her great brown eyes full of inquiry and entreaty.
“I think this young lady needs some attention,” Fred said, and Louie felt her wrist grasped in a strong hand which held her a moment, while the doctor counted her pulse and studied her face.
Then, releasing her, he said, with a laugh:
“Needs a good dinner more than anything, and then a good night’s rest. She has youth and health.”
He would have liked to have added “beauty,” for Louie’s face stirred even his sixty-year-old heart a little.
“She shall have the dinner at once,” Mr. Lansing said, bowing him out, and returning to Louie, who felt that she did not know exactly where she was or why she was there.
One fact stood distinctly before her. They could not afford all this luxury. Perhaps Mr. Lansing did not know what had happened, and how poor they were, and she must tell him.