Miss Holland, her thin, knuckly, white hand on Jeannette’s forearm, drew her into the sitting-room.
“Take off your things down here, my dear; I can’t climb stairs very well on account of my knees, and no one’s coming in.”
“How is your rheumatism?” inquired Jeannette.
“’Bout the same; it keeps me rather helpless, and the doctor is actually starving me to death. What with the things he says I can’t eat and the things I don’t like, my menus are rather limited.”
The two women settled themselves before the small, glowing coal fire in an old-fashioned grate, and began talking in low tones. Mrs. Sedgwick excused herself to make the children ready to go out, while Etta stood at the window, gazing with absorbed interest at any evidence of Navy life that came within the range of her vision.
“’Xcuse me, Miss Holland,” she interrupted presently with her usual breathlessness, “do you happen to know, or did you ever hear Commander Sedgwick mention a young ensign named White?”
Miss Holland looked doubtful.
“My friend, Marjorie Bowen, knew him, or knew his sister, I think, while he was at Annapolis.”
“Well, I’m afraid ...” began Miss Holland.
Etta proceeded hastily to another observation.