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It
will be a perfect crime if you let yourself spread out."
This wasn't the sort of consideration to make the inactivity any easier
to endure. She might have rebelled, had it not been for that germinant
idea of hers. It wouldn't do, she saw, in the light of that, to give
them any excuse for calling her unreasonable.
At the end of this purgatorial three weeks, she was carried to a chair
and allowed to sit up a little, and by the end of another, to walk
about--just a few steps at a time of course. One Sunday morning, Rodney
carried her up-stairs to the nursery to see her babies bathed. This was
a big room at the top of the house which Florence McCrea had always
vaguely intended to make into a studio. But, in a paralysis of
indecision as to what sort of studio to make it (book-binding, pottery
and art weaving called her about equally) she had left the thing bare.
Rodney had given Harriet _carte blanche_ to go ahead and fit it up
before he and Rose came back from the seashore, and the layette was a
monument to Harriet's thoroughgoing practicality.


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