"Good morning, Frank. No word of Jack?"
"No word, Jean."
"He is all right. He is over at Fourteen, and not up yet, I'll wager. Now suppose you go into the men's apartments and face the wall—that fire looks most inviting!"
I did as I was bidden, in part at least, while Jean dressed by the fire. After a little she gave me the "All clear!" and I swept out and seized her in my arms. . . It was a very wonderful way to begin the day.
"There now," she expostulated at length, "let me get the porridge on. That's more to the purpose."
"Porridge is poor business when there's loving to be done," I argued.
"You won't always think so," she replied as though with some strange glimpse of prophecy, and set busily about preparing breakfast. In these operations she discovered that everything that could freeze had frozen; we had to thaw the bread in the oven, and then to toast it; we melted the butter until it ran over the stove and then we gathered it up and spread it on the toast. We could not afford to be fastidious.
But such a breakfast as it was! The porridge was bubbling hot, rising in little volcanoes which erupted their jets of steam and oat-meal lava into the general aroma of the room; the tea was piping hot; the bacon was sizzling hot; even the toast, so recently frozen, was now hot and filled to the saturation point with hot butter. We ate and drank, and laughed and were happy and cared not a tuppence for all the storms that ever blew!
About mid-forenoon came a sudden smash at the door, and Jack precipitated himself into our presence. He was masked in snow, but his first glance was at me, and I knew by the sudden drawing of his lips the relief it was to see me safe and well.
"I was afraid for you, Frank," he said; "afraid you'd try it."