"Yassum!"
But somehow Annie always stayed.
CHAPTER XVI.
Late one morning Laura and Brockton were seated at the little table in the parlor, having breakfast together. They had been out the night before, at a big supper given by some friends, and had only got home in the small hours. Laura, attired in an expensive negligée gown, sat at one side of the table, pouring out the coffee; Brockton, in a gray business suit, sat opposite, carelessly scanning the Wall Street Messenger. Neither spoke and both looked tired and out of sorts. Brockton was as fond of champagne suppers as anyone, but he was not getting any younger. They did not agree with his constitution as they used to, with the result that he was generally out of humor the next day.
While he and his companion toyed listlessly with the silver-plated dishes in front of them, Annie busied herself about the room, trying to put it in order. Everything lay about just as it had been thrown the night before. The place looked as if a cyclone had devastated a second-hand clothing store. In the alcove a man's dress coat and vest were thrown carelessly on the cushions; a silk hat, badly rumpled, was near it. An opera cloak had been flung on the sofa, and on a chair was a huge picture hat with costly feathers. A pair of women's gloves were thrown over the cheval glass. The curtains in the bay window were half-drawn, filling the room with a rather dim light. Laura preferred it so. She did not wish Brockton to see the ravages which late hours and overabundance of rich foods were making on her complexion. She still had some feminine vanity left.
With a grunt and gesture of annoyance, Brockton threw his paper aside. Looking around, he demanded impatiently:
"Have you seen the Recorder, Laura?"
His companion was engrossed in the theatrical gossip of the Morning Chronicle. Without looking up, she replied indifferently:
"No."