"I do see! So is everybody else—here, it seems."
"They're warm-hearted folks out in the West. They love to make a noise. I hope you weren't disgusted."
"No, I liked them," said Marise. "They seemed so sincere. And Mrs. Mooney is the dearest little woman. I'd have my tongue cut out—almost!—rather than she should be sad. But now the question is, what's to be done? I tried to help you. You must help me."
"I will," Garth assured her. "It's going to be all right."
"But how—without hurting her?" Marise looked round the room. "You can't sleep on that little sofa."
"I can sleep on the floor rolled up in a blanket. That would have seemed a soft billet in France."
"You'd be wretchedly uncomfortable. And how would you bathe?"
"I guess you don't need to worry yourself about that detail. I'll manage the business in one way or other."
"That sounds vague! What's become of the room which used to be yours in this house, before you went to the war?"
"Your bedroom next door is the one. The only spare room we had in those days was this, where we're sitting now. We never had any people come to stay, though, so Mothereen turned it into a sewing-room."