In the morning, when both awoke almost simultaneously to a new sense of their reunion, the sun was shining through their front windows.
When they arose from bed, Roma would have begun to wash and dress little Owlet, just from the impulse of passionate affection, intensified by the startling loss and sudden recovery of the child; but the changeling, independent and self-reliant as ever, insisted that she both could and would wash and dress her “own self.”
Which she did, making herself, in her cheap calico frock and white apron, look like a rumpled pink and white hollyhock.
Then they went down by the elevator.
George Brown, son of the janitress, was running it.
“Where’s Titus?” inquired Owlet. “He wasn’t here when Mr. Merritt brought me up in it.”
“Titus, dear, has been sick in the hospital, but he is getting well now,” Roma explained.
The elevator touched the basement floor, and they got out.
When they entered the restaurant they found Tom waiting for them.
Owlet left Miss Fronde’s side and made a dash at him.