When she came to herself, there was something wet and cold on her breast, and a woman's print skirt, with a smoky smell, brushed her face.
It was still green twilight. A breastplate hung opposite her, reminding her of a scoured and brightly polished kettle. She felt so comfortable, she didn't want to stir.
A rough, bony hand stroked her forehead and a kindly voice murmured over and over again: "Poor young thing! poor child!"
Lilly, thinking it was time to give a sign of returning consciousness, moved, and the strong hand slid under the back of her neck and propped her up, and the kindly voice asked what she would like to do.
"I want to go home," said Lilly.
"That can't be done this minute," said the voice, "because he gave orders that he must speak to you again before he goes. But take my advice: just say 'Thank you' and 'Good-bye,' and be off as fast as you can. This is no place for a young girl like you."
Lilly sat up and arranged her collar. It was the cook bending over her, with her rugged, weather-beaten, thick-lipped face full of compassion.
She asked Lilly, as she patted her shoulder, what she should bring her as a pick-me-up--egg and wine, or a liqueur.
"Nothing, thank you," Lilly answered. "Let me go home."
"You shall, my dearie, but I must call him in first."