The new baby—the other children—”
“I knew it!” Nora said in a low, dismal tone. “I knew it all along. Like a prophecy! This Christmas was going to be utterly totally wrecked for me.”
“It isn’t Christmas tomorrow; it’s the Saturday before,” Beth answered. “And it isn’t being wrecked at all. You’ll have to stay in tomorrow and not go to Aunt Ruth’s dinner, so as to be perfectly all right again by Christmas!”
“But we always go!”
“I mean you, Nora. The rest of us will go, of course. I’ll have to find somebody to look after you tomorrow.”
Nora threatened tears. “I’ll miss the dinner we always have. I’ll miss Santa Claus.”
“Charles, or your father, can take you Sunday.”
“Sure,” Henry said. He felt unhappy; he seemed to share Nora’s distress over the possibility of missing the yearly, pre-Christmas dinner at Ferndale; he appeared to feel that the matter of not exposing his nieces and nephews to a slight touch of sore throat, even a faint risk of measles, was being over-stressed. “Sure, Beth. I mean—if you really think Nora has to stay away…?”
“I definitely do! The baby’s delicate. Ruth was talking about it only the other day. And I know how mad I got when they came here, years ago, and left our Ted with mumps!”
Nora’s face contracted.