"Sh!" warned Thomas. He busied himself with laying the silver.

Gwendolyn halted in front of Jane, and lifted a puzzled face. "But--but,
Jane," she began defensively, "you don't ever _dance_."

"Now, whatever do you think I was talkin' about?" demanded Jane,
roughly. "You dance, don't you, at Monsoor Tellegen's, of a Saturday
afternoon? Well, so do I when I get a' evenin' off,--which isn't often,
as you well know, Miss. And now your dinner's ready. So eat it, without
any more clackin'."

Gwendolyn climbed upon the plump rounding seat of a white-and-gold
chair.

Jane settled down nearby, choosing an upholstered arm-chair--spacious,
comfort-giving. She lolled in it, at ease but watchful.

"You can't think how that old butler spies on me," said Thomas,
addressing her. "He seen the tray when I put it on the dumb-waiter.
And, 'Miss Royle is havin' her lunch out,' he says. Then would you
_believe_ it, he took more'n half my dishes away!"

Jane giggled. "Potter's a sharp one," she declared. "But, oh, you
should've been behind a door just now when you-know-who and I had a
little understandin'."

"Eh?" he inquired, working his black brows excitedly. "How was that?"

Gwendolyn went calmly on with her mutton-broth. She already knew each
detail of the forth-coming recital.