Thomas displayed a second dish—Bermuda potatoes the size of her own small fist. "Who knows?" said he. "It might be a robin, it might be a plover, it might be a quail."
"It might be a—a talking-bird," said Gwendolyn. She poked the bird with a fork.
"Not likely," declared Thomas.
Gwendolyn turned away.
"Ain't it to your likin'?" asked Thomas, surprised. He did not take the plate at once, in his usual fashion.
"I—I don't want anything," she declared.
"Oh, but maybe you'd fancy an egg."
Gwendolyn took a glass of water.
"It's just as well," said Miss Royle. When she resigned her place presently, she talked to Jane in undertones,—so that Gwendolyn could hear only disconnectedly: "...Think it would be the safest thing ... she gets any worse.... Never do, Jane ... find out by themselves.... She won't be home till late to-night ... some grand affair. But he ... though of course I'm sorry to have to."
The moment Miss Royle was well away, Jane had a plan. "I think you're gittin' on so fine that you can hop up and dress," she declared, noting how the gray eyes sparkled, and how pink were the round spots on Gwendolyn's cheeks.