“But the blood, Miss Dorothy?”
“It’s from a nosebleed, Lizzie. I assure you I’m not badly hurt. If you’ll help me out of these rags and start a warm bath running, I’ll be ever so much obliged. A good soaking in hot water will fix me up. Then,” she added, “I think I’ll be real luxurious and have my dinner in bed.”
When the solicitous Lizzie brought up the dinner tray three-quarters of an hour later, a tired but decidedly sprucer Dorothy, in pink silk pyjamas, was leaning back against her pillows.
“My word, I’m hungry!” She seized a hot roll and began to butter it. “I’m off bucking thunderheads for life, Lizzie. But you can take it from me, that kind of thing gives you a marvelous appetite!”
“Yes, miss, I’m glad,” returned Lizzie, who had no idea what Dorothy was talking about. “You certainly look better.”
“By the way, what’s become of Daddy? Hasn’t he got home yet?”
“Oh, Miss Dorothy, I’m so sorry. Sure and I forgot to tell ye—Mr. Dixon won’t be home for dinner.”
“Did he telephone?”
“No, miss. He came home about quarter to five and packed his suitcase. He said to tell you he’d been called to Washington on business and he’d be gone a couple of days. Arthur drove him to Stamford to catch the New York express—he didn’t have much time.”
Dorothy helped herself to a spoonful of jellied bouillon. “Any other message?”