The Kid was sitting up in bed eating her supper when Elizabeth, Henry
and I burst breathlessly into her room. Her face was shining with
quiet contentment.

'Look, Mama, dear,' she said, 'at the beautiful baked custard Elizabeth
has made for my supper. Wasn't it kind of her?'

I snatched the custard away from her grasp. 'Don't eat another
mouthful,' I panted, 'you're going to have an emetic. You must be sick
at once.'

Mutely questioning inexorable Fate, she raised large, contemplative
eyes to mine. '_Must_ I, Mama? Can't I finish my custard first?'

There is about The Kid's character a stoic philosophy, blended, since
she has known Elizabeth, with a certain fatalism. Her habit of saying
'_Must_ I?' when faced with a disagreeable duty, indicates her outlook
on life. If those in authority declare she must, then there is no more
to be said about it. They represent Fate in action. She now yielded
up the custard with a sigh, but obediently drank the mixture I handed
her. There was a pause.

'How are you feeling, dear?' I inquired.

'Quite well, thank you, Mama, dear. May I have my custard now?'

'You ought not to be feeling well,' I said, puzzled. 'You'd better
have some more drops.'

'Oh, must I, Mama?'