“I’ll look in later,” he said, “if you’re still awake.”
He went away, lightly. She followed him with fathomless grey eyes; listened to his steps descending the stairs—heard his gay greeting, the voices of arriving guests—women’s laughter—the deeper voice of another man. After a little while she continued her interrupted dinner, gravely.
Mrs. Sniffen arrived presently. She seemed as starched, as rigid, as angular and prim as ever. But there was no disdainful tilt to her sharp nose. For the Mrs. Sniffen who now approached Eris was not the chilling automaton who had just admitted Annan’s dinner guests with priggish disapproval.
Eris, shy of her, looked up at her in some apprehension.
“Well,” exclaimed Mrs. Sniffen with a wintry smile, “you did eat it all, didn’t you? That’s the way to grow ’ealthy and wealthy, not to say wise, isn’t it, now? ’Ome vittles ’elps all ’urts, big or little, to my way of thinking.”
“I enjoyed it so much, thank you,” murmured Eris.
“And glad I am to ’ear you say it, Miss. ’Ave you quite finished?”
“Yes, thank you very much.”
Mrs. Sniffen took the tray, hesitated by the bedside:
“I ’ope,” she said, “that you will soon be well, Miss.... New York is just as bad as London, every bit! I know them both, Missy; and they’re both uncommon nasty.”