Another thing which complicated matters was they had Nurse Andrews
staying on with them that week. It was their own fault; they had asked
her. It was Josephine’s idea. On the morning—well, on the last morning,
when the doctor had gone, Josephine had said to Constantia, “Don’t you
think it would be rather nice if we asked Nurse Andrews to stay on for
a week as our guest?”
“Very nice,” said Constantia.
“I thought,” went on Josephine quickly, “I should just say this
afternoon, after I’ve paid her, ‘My sister and I would be very pleased,
after all you’ve done for us, Nurse Andrews, if you would stay on for a
week as our guest.’ I’d have to put that in about being our guest in
case—”
“Oh, but she could hardly expect to be paid!” cried Constantia.
“One never knows,” said Josephine sagely.
Nurse Andrews had, of course, jumped at the idea. But it was a bother.
It meant they had to have regular sit-down meals at the proper times,
whereas if they’d been alone they could just have asked Kate if she
wouldn’t have minded bringing them a tray wherever they were. And
meal-times now that the strain was over were rather a trial.
Nurse Andrews was simply fearful about butter. Really they couldn’t
help feeling that about butter, at least, she took advantage of their
kindness. And she had that maddening habit of asking for just an inch
more of bread to finish what she had on her plate, and then, at the
last mouthful, absent-mindedly—of course it wasn’t
absent-mindedly—taking another helping. Josephine got very red when
this happened, and she fastened her small, bead-like eyes on the
tablecloth as if she saw a minute strange insect creeping through the
web of it. But Constantia’s long, pale face lengthened and set, and she
gazed away—away—far over the desert, to where that line of camels
unwound like a thread of wool....
“When I was with Lady Tukes,” said Nurse Andrews, “she had such a
dainty little contrayvance for the buttah. It was a silvah Cupid
balanced on the—on the bordah of a glass dish, holding a tayny fork.
And when you wanted some buttah you simply pressed his foot and he bent
down and speared you a piece. It was quite a gayme.”
Josephine could hardly bear that. But “I think those things are very
extravagant” was all she said.
“But whey?” asked Nurse Andrews, beaming through her eyeglasses. “No
one, surely, would take more buttah than one wanted—would one?”
“Ring, Con,” cried Josephine. She couldn’t trust herself to reply.
And proud young Kate, the enchanted princess, came in to see what the
old tabbies wanted now. She snatched away their plates of mock
something or other and slapped down a white, terrified blancmange.
“Jam, please, Kate,” said Josephine kindly.
Kate knelt and burst open the sideboard, lifted the lid of the jam-pot,
saw it was empty, put it on the table, and stalked off.
“I’m afraid,” said Nurse Andrews a moment later, “there isn’t any.”
“Oh, what a bother!” said Josephine. She bit her lip. “What had we
better do?”
Constantia looked dubious. “We can’t disturb Kate again,” she said
softly.
Nurse Andrews waited, smiling at them both. Her eyes wandered, spying
at everything behind her eyeglasses. Constantia in despair went back to
her camels. Josephine frowned heavily—concentrated. If it hadn’t been
for this idiotic woman she and Con would, of course, have eaten their
blancmange without. Suddenly the idea came.
“I know,” she said. “Marmalade. There’s some marmalade in the
sideboard. Get it, Con.”
“I hope,” laughed Nurse Andrews—and her laugh was like a spoon tinkling
against a medicine-glass—“I hope it’s not very bittah marmalayde.”