"Your Mr. Fuller sounds charming," she said as she gave it back.
"Oh, Hortie is all right—in some ways." Patronizingly slipping the letter into her pocket, Sylvia shifted the subject. Nevertheless, a betraying flush colored her cheeks. "Now we must start dinner, mustn't we? See, it's noon already. I had no idea it was so late."
She tossed her hat into a chair.
"Don't you want to ask Mr. Heath which way he prefers his eggs—poached or boiled? I suppose with a temperature, he isn't going to be allowed anything but simple food. And Marcia, while you're there, do put a pair of fresh pillow-slips on his pillows. The ones he has are frightfully tumbled. I meant to do it this morning."
As the door closed behind the elder woman, artful young Sylvia smiled.
"There! That will keep her busy for a few moments at least. I know those pillow-cases. They fit like a snake's skin and are terribly hard to get off and on."
She crept into the hall and listened.
Yes, Marcia and Stanley Heath were talking. She could hear her aunt's gentle insistence and the man's protests. That was all she wished to know. The pillow-cases were in process of being taken off.
Up the stairs flew Sylvia, to return a second later, the jewel-case swathed in its loose wrappings.