“Yes, sir. Miss Indy say good-night, and she hopes you’ll sleep comfable, sir.”
“Much obliged,” muttered Winthrop.
“I’ll be back after awhile to fetch away the tray, sir.”
“All right.”
When he was once more alone he arose and laughed softly.
“Confound the woman! She’s a regular tyrant. I wonder if she’ll let me get up to-morrow. Oh, well, maybe she’s right. I don’t feel much like making conversation. Hello! there’s my trunk; I must have slept soundly, and that’s a fact!”
Unlocking the trunk, he rummaged through it until he found his dressing-gown and slippers. With those on he drew a chair to the table and began his supper.
“Nice diet for an invalid,” he thought, amusedly, as he uncovered the hot biscuits.
But he didn’t object to them, for he found himself very hungry; spread with the white, crumbly unsalted butter which the repast provided he found them extremely satisfactory. There was cold chicken, besides, and egg soufflé, fig preserve and marble cake, and a glass of milk. Winthrop’s gaze lingered on the milk.