Maggie put out a hand, and kept the Duchess from rising. "Sit still--
I'll fix the table."

Silently the Duchess acquiesced. Maggie had never felt any tenderness
toward this strange, silent woman with whom she had lived for three
years, but it was perhaps an indication of qualities within Maggie,
whose existence she herself never even guessed, that she instinctively
pushed the old woman aside from tasks which involved any physical
effort. Maggie now swung the back of a laundry bench up to form a
table-top, and upon it proceeded to spread a cloth and arrange a
medley of chipped dishes. As she moved swiftly and deftly about, the
Duchess watching her with immobile features, these two made a
strangely contrasting pair: one seemingly spent and at life's grayest
end, the other electric with vitality and giving off the essence of
life's unknown adventures.

Hunt stepped out between the curtains, pulling on his coat. "You'll
find that chow in my fireless cooker will beat the Ritz," he boasted.
"The tenderest, fattest kind of a fatted calf for the returned
prodigal."

Maggie started. "The prodigal! You mean--Larry is coming?"

"Sure," grinned Hunt. "That's why we celebrate."

Maggie wheeled upon the Duchess. "Is Larry really coming?"

"Yes," said the old woman.