"Well—he's almost one of the family. I don't see..." She bit her lip.
"All right, Mother—you know best." She hesitated for a moment, then went slowly toward the door. "It's getting late. I must do my hair."
But on the landing outside she gave vent to her impatience.
"Bother him!—I know she'll be ill." Then a voice called her back.
"Jill—I think—after all—I'll go to bed—my head's so bad. Will you look after Stephen? He likes a glass of port, remember. And I'm wondering if Roddy's slippers..."
"Too small," said Jill promptly. "There goes the gong!—don't you worry—I'll see to everything all right."
"No meat for me," her Mother added—"just a little soup—with a rack of toast. I'm too tired for anything solid."
"That's a mercy in disguise," said Jill as she fled up the further stairs. Her mind was much relieved as she thought of the debatable grilled bone. She brushed back her rebellious locks and tied them hurriedly with a ribbon. "I'm glad about the chicken now. Stephen will enjoy his dinner!"
That worthy greeted her with his supercilious smile. "H'are you—Where's your mother?" He held out a limp white hand.
"She's dead-tired and gone to bed. You'll have to put up with me to-night."