“Do you mean to say that you have not been up to see what is the matter with her?” asked Geoffrey.

“No, not yet,” answered his wife.  “I have had the dressmaker here with my new dress for the duchess’s ball to-morrow; it’s lovely, but I think that there is a little too much of that creamy lace about it.”

With an exclamation of impatience, Geoffrey rose and went upstairs.  He found Effie tossing about in bed, her face flushed, her eyes wide open, and her little hands quite hot.

“Send for the doctor at once,” he said.

The doctor came and examined the child, asking her if she had wet her feet lately.

“Yes, I did, two days ago.  I wet my feet in a puddle in the street,” she answered.  “But Anne did say that they would soon get dry, if I held them to the fire, because my other boots was not clean.  Oh, my head does ache, daddie.”

“Ah,” said the doctor, and then covering the child up, took Geoffrey aside and told him that his daughter had a mild attack of inflammation of the lungs.  There was no cause for anxiety, only she must be looked after and guarded from chills.

Geoffrey asked if he should send for a trained nurse.

“Oh, no,” said the doctor.  “I do not think it is necessary, at any rate at present.  I will tell the nurse what to do, and doubtless your wife will keep an eye on her.”

So Anne was called up, and vowed that she would guard the cherished child like the apple of her eye.  Indeed, no, the boots were not wet—­there was a little, a very little mud on them, that was all.

“Well, don’t talk so much, but see that you attend to her properly,” said Geoffrey, feeling rather doubtful, for he did not trust Anne.  However, he thought he would see himself that there was no neglect.  When she heard what was the matter, Lady Honoria was much put out.

“Really,” she said, “children are the most vexatious creatures in the world.  The idea of her getting inflammation of the lungs in this unprovoked fashion.  The end of it will be that I shall not be able to go to the duchess’s ball to-morrow night, and she was so kind about it, she made quite a point of my coming.  Besides I have bought that lovely new dress on purpose.  I should never have dreamed of going to so much expense for anything else.”

“Don’t trouble yourself,” said Geoffrey.  “The House does not sit to-morrow; I will look after her.  Unless Effie dies in the interval, you will certainly be able to go to the ball.”

“Dies—­what nonsense!  The doctor says that it is a very slight attack.  Why should she die?”

“I am sure I hope that there is no fear of anything of the sort, Honoria.  Only she must be properly looked after.  I do not trust this woman Anne.  I have half a mind to get in a trained nurse after all.”

“Well, if you do, she will have to sleep out of the house, that’s all.  Amelia (Lady Garsington) is coming up to-night, and I must have somewhere to put her maid, and there is no room for another bed in Effie’s room.”