"All right, here it is. Your mother will be in, presently."
"Our supper ain't as good as yours."
This conversation took place almost every night. As soon as she could she carried everything into her room. Then she and Milly sat down to the function of dinner. Milly sat on a high chair at one side of the sewing table, Jane at the other.
"Milly, you're a good, steady friend, but I just ache to have somebody talk back to me to-night. I wonder how it would feel to go to Buffanti's with people you liked, to talk, and eat good food and listen to music."
Milly had no comments to make on the subject, except to claw her plate. Jane put a morsel of food there, which disappeared.
"I'll pretend I went with them, and put it into the story to-night. I know how they talk, Milly, and how they think, and how they act, but I want them to know how I think and talk and act. I'm sick of being alone, I want somebody——"
She broke off and hid her face in her hands. Milly scratched her plate significantly. It is the routine of life which helps us through the tragedy, always. At Milly's practical reminder, Jane replenished her plate with the scrapings from her own, rose, carried her dishes to the sink, washed them, and put them away.
Then she locked her door, got out her pen and her blank book, lit the student lamp, and sat down at her table. Milly sprang into her favourite chair and the pleasure time of the day came to both of them. The purr and the scratch of the pen lasted far into the night.