A half hour later Joan crept noiselessly back, her arms full of bundles. Patricia lay fast asleep on the couch.
Sleep does revealing things, and in spite of her hurry, Joan stopped and looked at the girl lying in the full glare of the electric light.
She was like a weary child. All the hard lines on the thin face were obliterated; the soft hair fell in cunning curls about the neck and ears; the long lashes rested delicately on the fair skin.
All the world stains were covered by the sweet presence of Patricia's youth, which had stolen forth in slumber time.
Then it was that Joan discovered that she was crying. Big tears were rolling down her cheeks, and in her heart was growing a new, vital emotion—a selfless, nameless, urging tide of protection for something weak and helpless.
When the meal was prepared Joan kissed Patricia awake.
The girl sat up and gazed dazedly at the small table drawn to the couch, at the candles burning on it, at the covered dishes from which crept the most bewildering smells.
"The god of the famishing—bless you!" whispered Patricia and fell to the joy of the meal with the abandon of the starved.
She ate and drank and smoked. She let Joan wait upon her and dispose of the débris. She even directed Joan to the closet where her kimono and slippers were; she let Joan undress her and put them on.
"How thin you are, Pat lovey!" Here Joan kissed a white shoulder.