To keep Yvonne out of draughts and other pretexts for catching cold was one of Miss Vicary’s self-imposed tasks, and she sought to compensate Yvonne’s reckless exposure of herself when alone by excess of vigilance on her own part when Yvonne was under her control—which is not an uncommon irrationality in women, who, geniuses or not, have an infinite capacity for taking superfluous pains. However, in spite of her maternal precautions, it happened that Yvonne was laid up two or three days afterwards with a cold which flew at once to her throat. Although in no way serious, it filled her with dismay. She knew her throat to be delicate. That her voice might one day fail her was the dread of her life.
“What does he say about me?” she asked, pathetically, when Geraldine had returned from a short consultation with the doctor. “Is it going to hurt my voice? Oh, do tell me, Dina?”
“You must n’t talk, or else it will,” replied Geraldine, severely.
Then she threw off the chastener, put on the consoler, and, sitting on the bed, petted Yvonne until she had restored her mind to a measure of peace.
“Then I must throw up my engagements?” Yvonne asked, wistfully, after a while.
“Certainly the one here next week. But don’t bother your dear little head about it.”
“And the concerts at Fulminster for Canon Chisely. I must get well for them, Dina.”
“Why, of course you will,” replied Geraldine. “They are weeks and weeks ahead. Besides, let the Canon go to Jericho!”
“Why are you so hard upon Canon Chisely?” asked Yvonne.
“A case of Dr. Fell, I suppose. I don’t like his always hanging about you.”