I do not know when a simple problem has so perplexed me as did the dilemma I faced while sitting opposite my mother-in-law at lunch in Fraunces’s Tavern.

With the obstinacy of a spoiled child the elder Mrs. Graham was persisting in sitting with her heavy coat on while she ate her luncheon, although our table was next to the big, old fireplace, in which a good fire was burning.  Indeed, it was the table’s location, which she had selected herself, that was the cause of her obstinacy.  She had construed an innocent remark of mine into a slur upon her choice, and had evidently decided to wear her coat to emphasize the fact that in spite of the fire she was none too warm, and there she had sat all through lunch with her heavy coat on.

As I watched the beads of perspiration upon her forehead, and her furtive dabbing at them with her handkerchief, I realized that something must be done.  I saw that she would soon be in a condition to receive a chill, which might prove fatal.

Suddenly her imperious voice broke into my thoughts.

“Where is the Long Room of which you spoke?  On the second floor?”

“Yes.  Would you like to see it?”

“Very much.”  She rose from her chair, crossed the dining room into the hall and ascended the staircase, and I followed her upward, noting again, with a quick remorsefulness, her slow step, the way she leaned upon the stair rail for support and her quickened breathing as she neared the top.  It was a little thing, after all, I told myself sharply, to subordinate my individuality and cater to her whims.  I resolved to be more considerate of her in the future.  But my native caution made me make a reservation.  I would yield to her wishes whenever my self-respect would let me do so.  I had a shrewd notion that a person who would cater to every whim of my husband’s mother would be little better than a slave.

She spent so much time over the old letters in Washington’s handwriting, the snuff boxes and keys and coins with which the cases were filled that I was alarmed lest she should over-tire herself.  But I did not dare to venture the suggestion that she should postpone her inspection until another time.

But when I saw her shiver and draw her cloak more closely about her, I resolved to brave her possible displeasure.

“I am afraid you are taking cold,” I said, going up to her.  “Do you think we had better leave the rest of these things for another visit?”

Her face as she turned it toward me frightened me.  It was gray and drawn, and her whole figure was shaking as with the ague.

“I am afraid I am going to be ill,” she said faintly.  “I am so cold.”

I put her in a chair and dashed down the stairs.

“Please call a taxi for me at once, and bring some brandy or wine upstairs,” I said to the attendant.  “My mother-in-law is ill.”

As the taxi hurried us homeward I became more and more alarmed at her condition.  Her very evident suffering now heightened my fears.