JEAN-JOAN
Drusilla Gray's little late suppers were rather famous. It was not that she spent so much money, but that she spent much thought.
Tonight she was giving Captain Hewes a sweet potato pie. "He has never eaten real American things," she said to Jean. "Nice homey-cooked things—"
"No one but Drusilla would ever think of pie at night," said Marion Gray, "but she has set her heart on it."
There were some very special hot oyster sandwiches which preceded the pie—peppery and savory with curls of bacon.
"I hope you are hungry," said Drusilla as her big black cook brought them in. "Aunt Chloe hates to have things go back to the kitchen."
Nothing went back. There was snow without, a white whirl in the air, piling up at street corners, a night for young appetites to be on edge.
"Jove," said the Captain, as he leaned back in his chair, "how I shall miss all this!"
Jean turned her face towards him, startled. "Miss it?"
"Yes. I am going back—got my orders today."