He gave orders that these airs were not to be played, but failed to make his command convincing for the reason that he could not bring himself to the point of explaining why they were distasteful to him. When Frederic thoughtlessly whistled or hummed fragments of those proscribed airs he considered himself justified in commanding him to stop on the pretext that they were disturbing, but he could not use the same excuse for checking the song on the lips of his gay and impulsive wife. Sometimes he wondered why she persisted when she knew that he was annoyed. Her airy little apologies for her forgetfulness were of no consequence, for within the hour her memory was almost sure to be at fault again. Mr Dawes fell ill. He ventured out one day when the winds of March were fierce and sharp, and, being an adventurer, caught the most dangerous sort of a cold. He came in shivering and considerably annoyed because Jones or Ranjab or some other incompetent servant had failed to advise him to wear an overcoat and galoshes. To his surprise Mrs Brood ordered a huge, hot drink of whisky and commanded him to drink it--“like a good boy.” Then she had him stowed away in bed with loads of blankets about him. Just before dinner she came up to see him. He was still shivering. So was Mr Riggs, for that matter, but Mr Riggs failed to shiver convincingly and did not receive the treatment he desired. Their unexpected visitor felt the pulse and forehead of the sick man, uttered a husky little cry of dismay, and announced that he had a fever. Whereupon Mr Dawes said, rather shamefacedly, that he would be all right in the morning and that it was nothing at all. “We will have the doctor at once, Mr Dawes,” said she, and instructed Mr Riggs to call Jones. “I don't want a doctor,” said Mr Dawes stoutly. “I know you don't,” said she, with her rarest smile; “but I _do_, you see.” “They're no good,” said Mr Dawes. “Better have one,” advised Mr Riggs with sudden solemnity. “Never had one in my life,” said Mr Dawes. “Don't believe in 'em. I'll take a couple of stiff drinks before I go to bed and------” “But you've gone to bed, you old dear,” cried she, stroking his burning hand gently. He was too astonished to say a word. “Jumping Jees----” began Mr Riggs, completely staggered. “I mean, what doctor, Mrs Brood?” “Jones will know. Now, Mr Dawes, you must do just as I tell you to do. You are nothing but a child, you know. If------” “Hey, Joe!” called out the sick man desperately, but his comrade was gone. “Don't let him call a--doctor, Mrs Brood; please don't!” he implored. She sat down on the edge of the bed, holding his hand between her soft, cool palms, and smiled at him so tenderly that he stared for a moment in utter bewilderment and then gulped mightily. “Hush!” she said. “I--I don't want to be sick here, bothering you and upsetting everything------” he blubbered. “We will have you up and about in a day or two,” she said.