"Cook wants to know what she's to do about the raspberries, miss."
"Raspberries!" said Olga, with a start. "Oh, I'm afraid they're done for. It's no good thinking about them. I will go round to-morrow, and see if there are any left worth having. But I expect they will all be spoilt by this hot sun."
The girl looked at her, slightly mystified. "But they've been gathered, miss. Didn't you know? Cook thought you had done them yourself before you took ill."
Olga put her hand to her head. "No, I didn't. I hadn't finished. I dropped them all too."
"Well, they're in the pantry now, miss, and cook was wondering if she hadn't better start the jam first thing in the morning."
"Who brought them in?" asked Olga quickly.
The housemaid didn't know. She departed to ask.
Olga leaned back again on her cushions. She was growing a little tired of inactivity, notwithstanding the undeniable languor that had succeeded the previous day's headache.
The sound of voices in the hall outside, however, dispelled her boredom almost before she had time to recognize it. She suddenly remembered Max's pal, and started up in haste to smooth her rumpled hair. Surely Max would not be so inconsiderate as to bring him straight in to her without a moment's preparation!
This was evidently his intention, however, for she heard their footsteps drawing nearer, and she was possessed by a momentary shyness so acute that she nearly fled through the window. It really was too bad of Max!