"Here," quavered Jane, not quite sure of him or of herself perhaps.
But when he stopped beside her he didn't try to touch her arm again. He only said:
"I wouldn't have you forty for anything in the world. I want you to be just as you are, very beautiful and young."
Then, as if he was afraid he would say too much, he turned on his heel, and a moment after he kicked against the fallen pitcher in the darkness and awoke a thousand echoes. As for Jane, she put her fingers to her ears and ran to her room, where she slammed the door and crawled into bed with burning cheeks.
Jane was never sure whether it was five minutes later or five seconds when somebody in the room spoke—from a chair by the window.
"Do you think," said a mild voice—"do you think you could find me some bread and butter? Or a glass of milk?"
Jane sat up in bed suddenly. She knew at once that she had made a mistake, but she was quite dignified about it. She looked over at the chair, and the convalescent typhoid was sitting in it, wrapped in a blanket and looking wan and ghostly in the dusk.
"I'm afraid I'm in the wrong room," Jane said very stiffly, trying to get out of the bed with dignity, which is difficult. "The hall is dark and all the doors look so alike——"
She made for the door at that and got out into the hall with her heart going a thousand a minute again.
"You've forgotten your slippers," called the convalescent typhoid after her. But nothing would have taken Jane back.