The committee came, consulted and wondered what to do. It decided to await developments, and went away again. As Mrs. Fielding sped toward the place where she was to exercise the noble functions of her mind, Marjorie, in the nursery, lay in the private secretary's arms, at times sleeping and at times with wide-open, glassy, bright eyes. The private secretary was staying overtime, but she did not mind it. She was glad to stay because Marjorie was fretful and would not let Chiswick touch her. Marjorie moved about restlessly in Miss Vickers's arms, trying fresh positions each moment, and tossing her hot head from side to side. Her cheeks glowed red, and the same red overspread her forehead and gleamed through the tossed gold of her hair. Where her head touched it the private secretary's arm burned as under a hot iron. The private secretary--who really had no voice at all--chanted: “Ma-mie had a lit-tle lamb, Little lamb, Little lamb, Ma-mie had a lit-tle lamb, Its fleece was white as snow.” Marjorie fretted. She did not want to be sung to. She did not know what she wanted. She was not used to being abnormal in temperature, it made her peevish, but she was lovable even so, for through the peevishness stray smiles would creep--sick little “please--excuse--Marjorie”--smiles, to show she had no hard feelings, but just one great uncomfortable feeling. “You dear, dear, _dear_ baby!” the private secretary exclaimed, and bent and kissed the hot cheek. It was a hard night for the private secretary but it was a treasured night. It was blessed to feel the little hot baby resting in her arms and to be able to give up sleep and comfort and everything for the sleepless child. When the sun arose Marjorie had fallen asleep, but tossed restlessly, and on her white skin, from which the fever had retreated, thousands of bright red spots glowed and glowed. Marjorie had the measles. Chiswick suggested sending a hurry call for the committee, but while she was sending it the private secretary routed Mr. Fielding from his bed. He came to the nursery in bath robe and slippers, and dashed out again to set the telephone bell clamoring. Before the committee had its pompadours well under way the good old bulky doctor was bending over Marjorie's crib. “Very severe attack,” he said, “but not necessarily dangerous. Keep her (and so on), give her (and so on). I'll drop in after noon.” When the committee arrived an hour later it had nothing to do but approve or disapprove of what had already been done. It decided to send Mrs. Fielding bulletins. Nothing weak or exciting; just cool, calm statements of facts. Things in the manner of reports to a fellow committee woman. Mrs. Fielding received the first as she was in the hands of the reception committee. “Marjorie has measles. No cause for alarm,” it said. She frowned. Why should they bother her with trifles.