cold lunch, you'd have left out the adjective young.

"So Rose didn't come down this morning at all," Portia observed, when
she had done her duty by the egg. "You took her breakfast up to her, I
suppose."

Mrs. Stanton flushed a little. "She didn't want me to; but I thought
she'd better keep quiet."

"Nothing particular the matter with her, is there?" asked Portia.

There was enough real concern in her voice to save the question from
sounding satirical, but her mother's manner was still a little
apologetic when she answered it.

"No, I think not," she said. "I think the mustard foot-bath and the
quinine probably averted serious consequences. But she was in such a
state when she came home last night--literally wet through to the skin,
and blue with cold. So I thought it wouldn't do any harm ..."

"Of course not," said Portia. "You're entitled to one baby anyway,
mother, dear. Life was such a strenuous thing for you when the rest of
us were little, that you hadn't a chance to have any fun with us. And
Rose is all right. She won't spoil badly."

"I'm a little bit worried about the loss of the poor child's
note-books," said her mother. "I rather hoped they'd come in by the noon
mail. But they didn't."

"I don't believe Rose is worrying her head off about them." said Portia.