“Mademoiselle is more comfortable, n’est-ce pas?” she asked briskly.
“Yes, indeed, Annette,” Cynthia nodded gratefully at the Frenchwoman.
“Have you everything you wish, Mademoiselle Eleanor?”
“Yes, Annette, thank you. If I want anything more I will ring.”
“Be sure and close the door, Annette,” directed Cynthia, “I am afraid of a draft”; and she looked around until she saw her order obeyed.
“Have a sandwich?” asked Eleanor, handing the dish and a plate to Cynthia.
“I’d rather eat good sandwiches than solid food,” announced Cynthia, after a pause, helping herself to another portion.
“Solid?” echoed Eleanor. “I call pâté de foie gras and deviled ham pretty solid eating, Cynthia; especially when taken in bulk,” glancing quizzically at the rapidly diminishing pile.
“Don’t begrudge me these crumbs.” Cynthia’s smile was followed by a sigh. “I’ve lived on slops for three days. Why are you giving me such weak tea, Eleanor? I loathe it made that way.”
“I am afraid to make it stronger, Cynthia, it will keep you awake.”