“This afternoon?”
“Well, before night anyhow; as—as early this evening as possible.”
The voice was strained and tired, desperately tired. It was not peevish.
It was even rather pleasant.
“What is the case, Mr. Reed?”
He hesitated. “It is not illness. It is merely—the governess has gone
and there are two small children. We want some one to give her undivided
attention to the children.”
“I see.”
“Are you a heavy sleeper, Miss Adams?”
“A very light one.” I fancied he breathed freer.
“I hope you are not tired from a previous case?” I was beginning to like
the voice.
“I’m quite fresh,” I replied almost gayly. “Even if I were not, I like
children, especially well ones. I shan’t find looking after them very
wearying, I’m sure.”
Again the odd little pause. Then he gave me the address on Beauregard
Square, and asked me to be sure not to be late.
“I must warn you,” he added; “we are living in a sort of casual way. Our
servants left us without warning. Mrs. Reed has been getting along as
best she could. Most of our meals are being sent in.”
I was thinking fast. No servants! A good many people think a trained
nurse is a sort of upper servant. I’ve been in houses where they were
amazed to discover that I was a college woman and, finding the two
things irreconcilable, have openly accused me of having been driven to
such a desperate course as a hospital training by an unfortunate love
affair.
“Of course you understand that I will look after the children to the
best of my ability, but that I will not replace the servants.”