“She’s lost both.”
Before Max could reply he was shaken with a paroxysm of coughing, the severest of the morning, yet light compared with those of the night before, so much had warmth and food done toward banishing the spectre, tuberculosis.
“Come upstairs with me while I do up my room. I’ll do yours too this morning. After that we’ll get out in the sun; that’s the best medicine you can have.”
“Do—do up your room? Do you make beds?”
“Why not? Do you think I’d let her?”
“No—no, of course not. But why doesn’t she have a maid?”
“She has a woman to wash and clean two or three times a week.”
“She—she does all the rest? And takes boys to board?”
“Yes.” Sydney was having his eyes still more opened. “The work in this house is nothing; she spends most of her time in the nursery.”
Max followed his leader upstairs, asking no more questions, but watching Sydney, astonished, as he went deftly through the morning work. Once or twice Max moved a chair, or tried to help with a blanket, but his awkwardness was so apparent that he laughed at himself.