CHAPTER II
Jane Aubrey-Blythe was not in the habit of weakly shedding tears; nevertheless on this occasion she wept herself into a state of somnolence like a whipped child, when she lay quite still, her handkerchief rolled into a tight, damp ball, her limp figure shaken with an occasional recurrent sob.
"They are all too hateful," she murmured brokenly. "I wish something would happen—anything; I don't care what."
As a matter of fact, something did happen almost immediately. As Jane was sleepily pulling the blankets about her chilly shoulders, Susan's honest face, shining like a hard red apple in the light of the candle she carried, was thrust inside the door.
"O Miss Jane Evelyn," she whispered, "are you 'ere?"
"What is it, Susan?" demanded Jane, sitting up and winking drowsily at the candle flame.
"W'y, you've 'ad no dinner, miss, an' so I've brought you a bite of chicken and a mouthful of salad," said Susan briskly. "Just you lie back comfortable-like on these 'ere pillows, miss, an' I'll bring it in directly."
"But I'm not ill, Susan, and I'm not hungry," protested Jane. "I—I'm just tired."