She dictated a few notes--all declining invitations--and then, while I
still waited pen in hand, she sat up on the couch with one of her quick
movements, and said in a low voice, "I am not dining out to-night, Miss
Wrenn. I am not well enough."
"I am sorry for that." It was all I could think of to say, for I did not
understand why she should have told me.
"If you don't mind, I should like you to come down to dinner. There will
be only Mr. Vanderbridge and myself."
"Of course I will come if you wish it." I couldn't very well refuse to
do what she asked me, yet I told myself, while I answered, that if I had
known she expected me to make one of the family, I should never, not
even at twice the salary, have taken the place. It didn't take me a
minute to go over my slender wardrobe in my mind and realize that I had
nothing to wear that would look well enough.
"I can see you don't like it," she added after a moment, almost
wistfully, "but it won't be often. It is only when we are dining alone."
This, I thought, was even queerer than the request--or command--for I
knew from her tone, just as plainly as if she had told me in words, that
she did not wish to dine alone with her husband.
"I am ready to help you in any way--in any way that I can," I replied,
and I was so deeply moved by her appeal that my voice broke in spite of
my effort to control it.
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