"No doubt it's the glow from those red roses that I see in her cheeks."
"It's fever," Miss Warren exclaimed, indignantly. She took a hand-glass from her lap and regarded her vivid young features. "Smallpox attacks people differently. With me the first sign is fever." She had parted her abundant hair and swept it back from her brow in an attempt to make herself look ill, but with the sole effect of enhancing her appearance of abounding health. Madame la Branche's best black shawl was drawn about her plump and dimpled shoulders. Assuming a hollow tone, she inquired: "Do you see any other change in me?"
"Yes. And I rather like that way of doing your hair."
"Vittoria says I look like a picture of Sister Dolorosa, or something."
"Is Miss Fabrizi in?"
"In? How could she be out? Isn't she a dear, Norvin? I knew you'd meet some day."
"Does she play whist?"
"Of course not, silly. She's—nearly a nun. But we sat up in bed all night talking. Oh, it's a comfort to have some one with you at the last, some one in whom you can confide. I can't bear to—to soar aloft with so much on my conscience. I've confessed everything."
"What's to prevent her from catching the disease and soaring away with you?"
"She's a nurse. They're just like doctors, you know, they never catch anything. Is that hideous watchman still at his post?"