"Let me go now, Mills."
"Wait till Mary comes—we'll tell her."
"No, oh, poor Mary!"
Poor Mary indeed!
"Anyhow you've got to stay, Dulcie, and sing for me, and when Mary comes back she'll get us some supper and I'll read you my new verses."
Among the shadows Mary had a moment of tragic mirth. Then she set her feet on the floor and spoke:
"I'm sorry, Mills, but I couldn't cook supper to-night if I died for it—"
From their bright circle of light they peered at her.
"Oh, my poor dear!" Dulcie said.
"I'm not poor," Mary told her, "but I'm tired, dead tired, and my head aches dreadfully, and if you want Mills you can have him."