“No, don’t do that, because it breaks into what I am doing. I shall be downstairs again before luncheon-time, and you can tell me then anything you need. Cecilia, I trust you to see that I am not disturbed for two hours. Don’t call me before twelve o’clock, no matter what happens.”
It was long past noon when the last sheet of “The Spirit of the Eternal Ego” slipped from Barbara’s hand, and the pen was dropped. She glanced up at the little clock near the vine-wreathed window. “Ten minutes of one!” she exclaimed; “I must have missed the din—luncheon bell. But my essay is done—hurray!”
She hurried down the stairs. The living-room was empty and the porch deserted. The dining-room table had not been set. In the kitchen the sink was piled high with dirty dishes, dish-towels hung over every chair, and a trail of grease-spots ran from pantry to back door. The kitchen table was pulled up before a window, and about it were seated David, with some canned peaches, Gassy, with a saucer full of ground cinnamon and sugar, and Jack, with a massive sandwich of cold beefsteak and thick bread. On the table were a bowl of cold baked beans, a saucer of radishes, a dish of pickles, and a bottle of pink pop.
Barbara shuddered. “Where’s Ellen?” she asked.
Jack looked up. “Ah, the authoress!” he exclaimed. “I judge from your appearance upon the scene of action that the fire of genius has ceased to rage in unabated fury.”
WHY ARE YOU EATING IN HERE?
“Why are you eating in here? Where’s Ellen?” Barbara repeated.
“In reply to your first question, to save carrying; in reply to your second, I canna say. I know not where she went; I only know where she deserves to go.”