He sat up on the side of the bedstead. Before him stood a chair draped with a towel and a change of coarse, but clean clothes. On the clean-swept floor were a pair of soft moccasins, a dishpan, a bar of soap, and a large jar of water.
When he limped out of his bedroom he had "tubbed" himself as thoroughly as an Englishman and felt as ravenous as a wolf. Elsie was alone in the living room, deftly handling pots and pans on the charcoal brazier.
"Good morning," he hailed. "Glad I'm just in time for breakfast."
The girl upturned her wide blue eyes to him in a look of shy delight.
"I heard you splashing about and I hustled," she replied. "But it's not breakfast—it's dinner."
"So early as this?"
"So late! You've slept all the rest of yesterday and all night and all morning. I thought you'd never wake. Sit down."
"How about the others?"
"Oh, Dad just nibbles when he has his tizwin spells, and Mena ate hers mid-morning."
The table top had been scrubbed. Lennon sat down at the nearest corner and fell to on the omelette and fried chicken, cream cheese, salad, cornbread and honey that she set before him. The food was all served in bowls and jugs of quaintly beautiful ancient cliff-dweller pottery.