so."

She saw that she had gone too far. "You mustn't take the things I say
too seriously."

The bell of the telephone at her elbow whirred. She put the receiver
to her ear. "It is General Drake's man; he thinks you'd better come
over before you go to bed."

"I was afraid I might have to go. He is in rather bad shape, Hilda."

She packed his bag for him competently, and telephoned for his car.
"I'll have a cup of coffee ready for you when you get back," she said,
as she stood in the door. "It is going to be a dreadful night."

The streets were icy and the sleet falling. "You'd better have your
overshoes," Hilda decided, and went for them.

As he put them on, she stood under the hall light, smiling. "Have you
forgiven me?" she asked as he straightened up.

"For telling me the truth? Of course. You take such good care of me,
Hilda."

Upstairs in her own room Jean was writing a letter. It was a very
pretty room, very fresh and frilly with white dimity and with much pink
and pale lavender. The night-light which shone through the rose
taffeta petticoats of a porcelain lady was supplemented at the moment
by a bed-side lamp which flung a ring of gold beyond Jean's blotter to
the edge of the lace spread. For Jean was writing in bed. All day her