She had but time to arrange her dressing
sacque when her father walked in.
"Good morning, my dear," he said and, stooping over, kissed her.
As he straightened up, the side of his single-breasted coat turned
back and exposed to Helen's bright eyes the end of a white
envelope. "Barbara told me you are not well," he wheeled forward
a chair and sat down by the bed. "Hadn't I better send for Dr.
Stone?" "Oh, no," her reply, though somewhat faint, was emphatic,
and he frowned.
"Why not?" aggressively. "I trust you do not share Barbara's
suddenly developed prejudice against the good doctor."
"I do not require a physician," she said evasively. "I am well."
McIntyre regarded her vexedly. He could not decide whether her
flushed cheeks were from fever or the result of exertion or
excitement. Excitement over what? He looked about the room; it
reflected the taste of its dainty owner in its furnishings, but
nowhere did he find an answer to his unspoken question, until his
eye lighted on a box of rouge under the electric lamp on her
bed stand.
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