“All right, Granny; I’m going to get up to-morrow.”

Frances Freeland, whose principle it was that people should always be encouraged to believe themselves better than they were, answered.  “Yes, darling, of course; you’ll be up in no time.  It’ll be delightful to see you in a chair to-morrow.  But you mustn’t talk.”

Derek sighed, closed his eyes, and went off into a faint.

It was in moments such as these that Frances Freeland was herself.  Her face flushed a little and grew terribly determined.  Conscious that she was absolutely alone in the house, she ran to her bag, took out her sal volatile, applied it vigorously to his nose, and poured a little between his lips.  She did other things to him, and not until she had brought him round, and the best of it was already made, did she even say to herself:  ’It’s no use fussing; I must make the best of it.’

Then, having discovered that he felt quite comfortable—­as he said—­ she sat down in a chair to fan him and tremble vigorously.  She would not have allowed that movement of her limbs if it had in any way interfered with the fanning.  But since, on the contrary, it seemed to be of assistance, she certainly felt it a relief; for, whatever age her spirit might be, her body was seventy-three.

And while she fanned she thought of Derek as a little, black-haired, blazing-gray-eyed slip of a sallow boy, all little thin legs and arms moving funnily like a foal’s.  He had been such a dear, gentlemanlike little chap.  It was dreadful he should be forgetting himself so, and getting into such trouble.  And her thoughts passed back beyond him to her own four little sons, among whom she had been so careful not to have a favorite, but to love them all equally.  And she thought of how their holland suits wore out, especially in the elastic, and got green behind, almost before they were put on; and of how she used to cut their hairs, spending at least three-quarters of an hour on each, because she had never been quick at it, while they sat so good—­except Stanley, and darling Tod, who would move just as she had got into the comb particularly nice bits of his hair, always so crisp and difficult!  And of how she had cut off Felix’s long golden curls when he was four, and would have cried over it, if crying hadn’t always been silly!  And of how beautifully they had all had their measles together, so that she had been up with them day and night for about a fortnight.  And of how it was a terrible risk with Derek and darling Nedda, not at all a wise match, she was afraid.  And yet, if they really were attached, of course one must put the best face on it!  And how lovely it would be to see another little baby some day; and what a charming little mother Nedda would make—­if only the dear child would do her hair just a little differently!  And she perceived that Derek was asleep—­and one of her own legs, from the knee down.  She would certainly have bad pins