In the light of the day his situation did not seem so complicated. "We must leave this city and go out West somewhere—get shut of the whole bunch. Father was right—this trance business is intolerable."
His natural vigor and decision returned to him. He rose with a bound, calling to his mother with a realization of the fact that she had no cook. "Who gets breakfast, you or I?"
She replied, with a little flutter of dismay in her voice, "I don't believe there is a crumb of bread in the house."
"Never mind," he replied; "I'll go to the corner and negotiate a roll."
The neighborhood did not improve with daylight acquaintance, and on his way back from the shop with a jug of cream and a paper bag in his hands he dwelt again upon his motor-car ride to the Palace Hotel and reviewed the eighteen-dollar meal they had eaten. He possessed sufficient sense of humor to grin as he clutched his parcels. "If Miss Wood were to see me now she'd experience a jolt."
His smile did not last long. "Mrs. Joyce knows all about us," he admitted. "That's why she blew us to that feast. She was trying to compensate mother for her empty cupboard, which was very nice of her." Then his thought went deeper. He began to understand that it was to provide him with a larger allowance that his mother had been living alone and doing her own work. "Dear little mutter!" he said, and his heart softened toward her. "She's been walking the tight-rope, all right."
She was up and at work in the tiny kitchen as he came in. "I forgot to get my supplies Saturday—and yesterday I was so upset—"
"Never mind," he replied, gaily. "The 'royal gorge' we had last night makes breakfast supererogatory. I've attached some rolls and a bottle of cream, and if you've any coffee and sugar we're fixed."
"I have sugar but no coffee. I drink—"
"Not on your life!" he cut in. "No burnt wheat for me!" And he tore down the stairs like mad.