"Don't do that again," he protested sternly, with nothing of the invalid
in his voice. "I don't like to see you do such things when I couldn't
stir to save you no matter what happened."
She stood looking down at him. "Jerry," she said, "I'll tell you why I
stayed to-night. I wanted to talk with you about something. I want your
help."
His eyes told her that he would give it if he could.
"Do you mind if I sit on a pillow here before the fire?" she asked,
bringing one from the couch. Jerry had plenty of pillows. Since his
breakdown every girl who had ever known him had sent him a fresh one.
"Somehow I can talk better," she explained.
She settled herself on her cushion, her blue skirts lying in light folds
about her, her chin on her hand, her elbow on her knee.
"I always go straight to the point," she said. "I never know how to lead
artfully up to a thing. Jerry, you know I go to Paris in January, to do
some special work in illustrating?"
"Yes."
"I go with Aunt Elizabeth, and we shall live very quietly and properly,
and I shall not have any of the--trials--so many young women workers
have.
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