“Very likely,” said her aunt calmly. “All the more reason for being careful today. No, my dear, I must insist on your remaining in bed,--at least until Dr. Browne has seen you.” “When is he coming?” “The attendant said she could locate him and would send him here as soon as possible. He is out making his calls.” “The chocolate tasted queerly this morning, Aunt Frieda,” said the girl, feverishly. “Imagination. Nothing tastes right when one's stomach is upset.” “Oh, I want so much to get out for a breath of fresh air. It is a perfectly lovely day. I am sure Dr. Browne will say it's the best thing in the world--” “Dr. Browne doesn't know everything,” interrupted Mrs. Carstairs. She laid her hand on the girl's hot forehead. “You _must_ go back to bed,--just for a little while,” she said, and there was an inexorableness in her tone that roused swift resentment in Louise. A rebellious, angry light smouldered in her eyes. “I know what is best for you. If it should turn out to be ptomaine poisoning--” “It can't be ptomaine if it came from the chocolate I drank,” sad Louise, excitement causing her voice to tremble and to take on a certain shrillness. “I am confident it is all due to nervousness,” said Mrs. Carstairs. She spoke in a patient, consoling manner. “Dr. Browne will give you something to straighten out your digestion, and you will be all right by tomorrow. You are not strong yet, you know. Just be patient, my dear. It takes time.” “I should like to telephone, Aunt Frieda,” said the girl abruptly. Submissive to the gentle but unyielding authority of the older woman, who dominated as one with the power to scourge if resistance continued, she had begun to divest herself, rather helplessly, of the gay peignoir in which she had breakfasted. With feverish haste, she slipped her arms through the loose folds, and faced her aunt. There was defiance in her glance. For an instant it held. The calm smile and the tolerant shake of the head, as to a pleading child, shattered her resolve; she saw that argument was useless. The robe fell from her shoulders as she turned away with a sob in her throat. “Is it important?” inquired the older woman. “I--this afternoon will do as well, I suppose,” replied the girl, without turning her head. “Let me call up for you, dear. It is no trouble at all. I can explain that you are ill.” “No, thank you, Aunt Frieda. It--it doesn't matter.” She hesitated about confiding to Mrs. Carstairs that she was going out to meet her lover. Something told her that it would be the wrong thing to do,--something that for want of another name would have to go as cunning. She shared a vague, disturbing secret with Steele.... Mrs. Carstairs tucked the bedclothes about her. “The doctor will be here soon, I am sure,” she said. “Do you feel any better? Are you more comfortable?” “I am in no pain,--if that's what you mean. Just this wretched nausea. What do the morning papers say about the loss of the _Elston_, Aunt Frieda?”