“My dear child, what on earth does this mean?”—and Mrs. Carr rushed upon the bed and peered down on the invalid.
“My throat; it’s perfectly terrible! I must have taken cold at the rehearsal last night.” Zelda sat up in bed, looking very miserable and speaking with difficulty, while she pointed vaguely to a chair.
“This is a calamity,—it’s a positive tragedy.”
“I’m sorry. I’m ever so ashamed of myself. My throat feels like a nutmeg grater.”
“Ugh!” and Mrs. Carr shuddered. “What does the doctor say?”
“Doctor? I wouldn’t have one of them come near me for anything. I had an attack like this once before—in Paris—and I know exactly what to do. I have always kept the prescription the French doctor gave me.”
“But what can we do? You’ve simply got to go through the play to-night, some way.”
“I hope so, I hope so,” said Zelda, in a tone that was without hope.
“Even if you can’t sing, you’ll have to speak the lines. It’s too late now for a postponement.”
“Yes; if my fever goes down, I can speak the lines somehow. I’m afraid there’s fever with the cold.”