She lay for a bit thinking about that, then rapped gently beside her bed. She heard Nancy’s springs creak, heard her mutter something sleepily, and in a moment the light of Nancy’s candle appeared beneath the crack of the door. The crack widened and a sleepy voice asked, “Did you rap, honey? Oh, you poor thing! Cynthia, you are a wreck!” Mrs. Brewster was called immediately and then Madame. Together they applied a hot, oily cloth to Cynthia’s throbbing throat, a funny aluminum hot-water bottle to her feet, and gave her a dose of something else, equally unpleasant and equally hot. Then she was given something to breathe on a handkerchief ... Cynthia muttered that it nearly blew off the top of her head, but it did miraculously clear her nose for its original purpose of breathing. Next day she felt heaps and heaps better and protested that she could easily get up. But she was kept in bed till noon and then allowed out only for a short stroll in the sunshine, equipped with a handkerchief soaked in the breathing stuff. “But no more bathing till you are quite over this,” was the stern order of Nancy’s mother. “Yes’m,” murmured Cynthia meekly, ashamed to have given them all such a fright. There was, however, a final straw. At dinner that night Madame reported that she had seen the mother of the little girl, Leonie her name was, and that the woman refused to let the child pose for her portrait. “But how silly,” stammered Cynthia. “What is the matter? I’ll pay for her time of course.” “It’s not that,” Mrs. Brewster explained from Madame’s conversation. “But they are rather afraid of artists. The few who come here paint only the sea and the dunes. They aren’t accustomed to the idea of artists’ models, not even for portraits. This woman seems unusually simple and I suppose the word ‘posing’ made her think of wicked Paris! I’m sorry, for I think I might have persuaded her. Madame probably didn’t know how to go about it tactfully. ... If the woman could have met you. ... But aren’t there others you can get? I’m sure there must be.” So that Christmas cover had gone to smash, too! It would be hard to pick out another child, after having seen Leonie. Perhaps she’d have another opportunity to see the villagers at the meeting on Tuesday evening. Mrs. Brewster again gave her reluctant, though amused, consent. “If you’ll take a fresh handkerchief with some of that Breathex on it. ...” “Three of ’em,” promised Cynthia and Nancy together. “... And come straight home if you find you’re in a draft, or if you start to sneeze.” “We will,” came the chorus. Mrs. Brewster laughed. “All right. And I may sound fussy, but a tiny village in a foreign country is no place for one to get ill. Now run along and get ready for your show.”