At this they both laughed. The widow now came in, with a sad look, bearing a steaming cup, which Mary took from her and presented to Hilary.
"Drink your broth—and after this you must drink it whenever Mrs. Lewis brings it."
Hilary raised himself with an effort on his pillows and began to sip the broth, making a wry face.
"Awful stuff," he protested.
"Indeed, it's the best chicken broth, if I did make it myself!" muttered the widow, retiring with an offended air.
"I'm afraid you're a trying invalid," said Mary, amused.
"Hate to be treated like an invalid, that's all.... But women always have to be coddling something," Hilary said ungraciously.
He finished the broth and lay back with a sigh of relief. Mary rose and began setting the room in order, restoring scattered books to their shelves, picking up articles of clothing and crumpled papers from the floor. Hilary's eyes followed her; he made no protest, even when she arranged the papers on his desk in neat piles.
"You know," said Mary suddenly, "Laurence and the Judge are going to defend that man—Barclay."
"Yes, I know it."