He turned her round and started her in the right direction with a
little push. But she had gone only a step or two when she heard him
coming after her quickly.

"Where are you?"

"Here," quavered Jane, not quite sure of him or of herself perhaps.

But when he stopped beside her he didn't try to touch her arm again.
He only said:

"I wouldn't have you forty for anything in the world. I want you to
be just as you are, very beautiful and young."

Then, as if he was afraid he would say too much, he turned on his
heel, and a moment after he kicked against the fallen pitcher in the
darkness and awoke a thousand echoes. As for Jane, she put her
fingers to her ears and ran to her room, where she slammed the door
and crawled into bed with burning cheeks.

Jane was never sure whether it was five minutes later or five
seconds when somebody in the room spoke--from a chair by the window.

"Do you think," said a mild voice--"do you think you could find me
some bread and butter? Or a glass of milk?"

Jane sat up in bed suddenly. She knew at once that she had made a
mistake, but she was quite dignified about it. She looked over at
the chair, and the convalescent typhoid was sitting in it, wrapped