“Oh, no,” her reply, though somewhat faint, was emphatic, and he frowned.
“Why not?” aggressively. “I trust you do not share Barbara's suddenly developed prejudice against the good doctor.”
“I do not require a physician,” she said evasively. “I am well.”
McIntyre regarded her vexedly. He could not decide whether her flushed cheeks were from fever or the result of exertion or excitement. Excitement over what? He looked about the room; it reflected the taste of its dainty owner in its furnishings, but nowhere did he find an answer to his unspoken question, until his eye lighted on a box of rouge under the electric lamp on her bed stand.
“Don't use that,” he said, touching the box. “You know I detest make-up.”
“Oh, that!” She turned to see what he was talking about. “That rouge belongs to Margaret Brewster.”
McIntyre promptly changed the conversation. “Have you had your breakfast?” he asked.
“Yes; Grimes took the tray down some time ago.” Helen watched her father fidget with his watch fob for several minutes, then asked with characteristic directness. “What do you wish?”
“To see that you have proper medical attention if you are ill,” he returned promptly. “How would a week or ten days at Atlantic City suit you and Barbara?”
“Not at all.” Helen sat up from her reclining position on the pillows. “You forget, father, that we have a house-guest; Margaret Brewster is not leaving until May.”