quarrel with, feeling more like herself. "My father's one of the
directors, and somebody gets it."

The red-haired person sat on the radiator and eyed Jane. He looked
slightly stunned, as if the presence of beauty in a Billie Burke
chignon and little else except a kimono was almost too much for him.
From somewhere near by came a terrific thumping, as of some one
pounding a hairbrush on a table. The red-haired person shifted along
the radiator a little nearer Jane, and continued to gloat.

"Don't let that noise bother you," he said; "that's only the
convalescent typhoid banging for his breakfast. He's been shouting
for food ever since I came at six last night."

"Is it safe to feed him so much?"

"I don't know. He hasn't had anything yet. Perhaps if you're ready
you'd better fix him something."

Jane had finished her bread and tea by this time and remembered her
kimono.

"I'll go back and dress," she said primly. But he wouldn't hear of
it.

"He's starving," he objected as a fresh volley of thumps came along
the hall. "I've been trying at intervals since daylight to make him
a piece of toast. The minute I put it on the fire I think of
something I've forgotten, and when I come back it's in flames."