Edith's spine had been hurting her in the night. She lay flat and exhausted, and the embrace of her loving arms was slow and frail.
Edith was what she called "dressed," and waiting for her sister-in-law. The little table by her bed was strewn with the presents she had bought and made for Anne. A birthday was a very serious affair for Edith. She was not content to buy (buying was nothing; anybody could buy); she must also make, and make beautifully. "I mayn't have any legs that can carry me," said Edith; "but I've hands and I will use them. If it wasn't for my hands I'd be nothing but a great lumbering, lazy mass of palpitating heart." But her making had become every year more and more expensive. Her beautiful, pitiful embroideries were paid for in bad nights. And at six o'clock that morning she had given her little dismal cry: "Oh, Nanna, Nanna, my beast of a spine is going to bother me to-day, and it's Anne's birthday!"
"And what else," said Nanna severely, "do you expect, Miss Edith?"
"I didn't expect this. I do believe it's getting worse."
"Worse?" Nanna was contemptuous. "It was worse on Master Walter's birthday last year."
(Last year she had made a waistcoat.)
"I can't think," moaned Edith, "why it's always bad on birthdays."
But however badly "it" might behave in the night, it was never permitted to destroy the spirit of the day.
Anne looked anxiously at the collapsed, exhausted figure in the bed.
"Yes," said Edith, having smiled at her sister-in-law with magnificent mendacity, "you may well look at me. You couldn't make yourself as flat as I am if you tried. There are two books for you, and a thingummy-jig, and a handkerchief to blow your dear nose with."