LITMIR.BIZ

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day came, when the influenza epidemic was at its height in Questerham, when Miss Bruce exclaimed in tones of scarcely suppressed indignation as Char came downstairs after the usual hasty breakfast which she had in her own room: "My dear, you're not fit to go. Really you're not; you ought to be in bed this moment. Do, do let me telephone and say you can't come today. Indeed, it isn't right. You look as though you hadn't slept all night."

      "I haven't, much," said Char hoarsely. "I have a cold, that's all."

      "Miss Vivian was coughing half the night," thrust in her maid, hovering in the hall laden with wraps.

      "You mustn't go!" cried Miss Bruce distractedly.

      "You really aren't fit, Miss."

      Lady Vivian appeared at the head of the stairs.

      "What's all this?"

      "Oh, Lady Vivian," cried the secretary, "do look at her! She ought to be in bed."

      Char said: "Nonsense!" impatiently, but she gave her mother an opportunity for seeing that her face was white and drawn, with heavily ringed eyes and feverish lips.

      "You've got influenza, Char."

      "I dare say," said Char in tones of indifference. "It would be very odd if I'd escaped, since half the office is down with it. But I can't afford to give in."

      "It would surely be truer economy to take a day off now than to risk a real breakdown later on," was the time-worn argument urged by Miss Bruce.

      Char smiled with pale decision.

      "Let me pass, Brucey. I really mean it."

      "Lady Vivian!" wailed the secretary.

      Joanna shrugged her shoulders. She, too, looked weary.

      "Be reasonable, Char."

      "It's of no use, mother. I shouldn't dream of giving in while there's work to be done."

      Miss Bruce gave a sort of groan of mingled admiration and despair at this heroic statement. Char slipped her arms into the fur coat that her maid was holding out for her.

      Lady Vivian stood at the top of the stairs looking at her with an air of detached consideration, and left Miss Bruce to make those hurried dispositions of foot-warmer, fur rug, and little bottles of sulphate and quinine which, the secretary resentfully felt, a more maternal woman would have taken upon herself.

      But Lady Vivian's omissions were not destined to provide the only one, or even the most severe, of the shocks received by Miss Bruce's sensibilities that morning.

      As Char extended her hand for the last of Miss Bruce's offerings, a small green bottle of highly pungent smelling salts, Lady Vivian's incisive tones came levelly from above.

      "You'd better stay the night at Questerham, Char. It will be very cold driving back after dark."

      "Oh no, mother. Besides, I don't know where I could go. I hate the hotel, and one can't inflict an influenza cold on other people."

      "You can go to your Hostel. Surely there's a spare bed?"

      The ghost of a smile flickered upon Lady Vivian's face, as though in mischievous anticipation of Char's refusal.

      "It's quite out of the question. The Hostel is for my staff, and it would be very unsuitable for me, as Director of the Midland Supply Depôt, to go there too."

      "Bless me! are they as exclusive as all that?" exclaimed Joanna flippantly. "Well, do as you like, but if you come back here, you're not to go near your father, with a cold like that."

      Miss Bruce, almost before she knew it, found herself exchanging a glance of indignation with Char's maid, but she was conscious enough of her own dignity to look away again in a great hurry.

      "You will certainly want to go straight to bed when you come in," she said to Char, pointedly enough. "We will have everything ready and a nice fire in your room."

      "Thank you, Brucey."

      Char bestowed her rare smile upon the little agitated secretary, and moved across the hall.

      She felt very ill, with violent pains in her head and back, and shivered intermittently.

      Leaning back in her heavy coat, under the fur rug, Char closed her eyes. She reflected on the dismay with which Miss. Delmege would greet her, and wondered rather grimly whether any further members of her staff would have succumbed to the prevailing illness. She knew that only a will of iron could surmount such physical ills as she was herself enduring, and dreaded the moment when she must rouse herself from her present torpid discomfort to the necessity of moving and speaking.

      As she got out of the car, Char reeled and almost fell, in an intolerable spasm of giddiness, and her progress up the stairs was only made possible by the remnant of strength which allowed her to grasp the baluster and lean her full weight upon it as she dragged herself into her office.

      She was, however, met with no wail of condolence from the genteel accents of Miss Delmege.

      Grace Jones, composedly solid and healthy-looking, said placidly: "Good-morning. I'm sorry to say that Miss Delmege is in bed with influenza."

      "In bed!"

      "She had a very restless night and has a temperature this morning."

      "She was all right yesterday."

      "She had a sore throat, you know," remarked Grace, "but she didn't at all want to give in, and is very much distressed."

      Char raised her heavy eyes.

      "You all seem to me to collapse like a pack of cards, one after another. I think my bed would prove a bed of thorns while there's so much work to do, and so few people to do it. In fact, I can't imagine wanting to go there."

      She made an infinitesimal pause, shaken by one of those violent, involuntary, shivering fits. Miss Jones gazed at her chief.

      "I think I can manage Miss Delmege's work," she observed gently.

      "Oh, I shall have to go through most of it myself, of course," was the ungrateful retort of the suffering Miss Vivian.

      The day appeared to her interminable. The air was damp and raw; and although Miss Jones piled coal upon the fire, it refused to blaze up, and only smouldered in a sullen heap, with a small curling column of yellow smoke at the top. A traction-engine ground and screamed and pounded its way up and down under the window, and each time it passed directly in front of the house the floor and walls of Char's room shook slightly, with a vibration that made her feel sick and giddy.

      There were no interviews, but letters and telephone messages poured in incessantly, and at about twelve o'clock a telegram marked "Priority" was brought her. With a sinking sense of utter dismay, Char tore it open.

      "A rest-station for a troop-train at five o'clock this afternoon. Eight hundred. Miss Jones, please let the Commissariat Department know at once. The staff should be at the station by three. I'll make out the list at once, and you can take it round the office."

      By four o'clock a fine cold rain was falling, and Char's voice had nearly gone.

      As she hurried down to her car, which was to take her to the station, she heard an incautiously raised voice: "She does look so ill! Of course it's flu, and I should think this rest-station will just about finish her off."

      "Not she! I do believe she'd stick it out if she were dying. No lunch today, either, only a cup of Bovril, which I simply had to force her to take."

      Char recognized the voice of Miss Henderson, who had received her order for lunch in place of Miss Delmege, and had ventured to suggest the Bovril in tones of the utmost deference.

      She smiled slightly.

      The troop-train was late.

      "Of course!" muttered Char, pacing up and down the sheltered platform with the fur collar of her motoring coat turned up, and her hands deep in its wide pockets.

      In

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