After I had taken off my dress, and hung it over the only chair in the room that wouldn’t be hurt by moisture, I put on the dark green dressing gown that Sam had laid out for me, and went down stairs again--holding the robe up around me, for of course it was miles long for me, and it made me go carefully for fear I would trip. Sam had two chairs before the big fireplace, and in this a few sticks were burning. When he saw me, he laughed, and I laughed too, and then we settled. Maria came in with a tray that had on it an orange china tea set, that looked very pretty on that dull, gray day, and there were yellow flowers tucked into each napkin, and she had orange cake, and mayonnaise and egg sandwiches to eat with our tea, and so the color scheme was quite perfect. After I had eaten three sandwiches and was about to begin on another--I wasn’t very hungry, it hadn’t been long since lunch--I spoke. “Sam,” I said, “don’t you think some one ought to tell them it’s raining?” “Not by a good deal!” he answered, as he poured himself some fresh tea. “They’ll get on to it sometime, all by themselves--” “Miss Sheila’s been sick,” I added. I was a little bit worried, but Sam answered that he thought the soaking wouldn’t hurt her, and it didn’t, and he added the statement that he didn’t _believe_ Mr. Wake would be grateful for any interruption just then. Then we were quiet a minute as we watched the spluttery little fire leap and die down, and then leap all over again. I twisted my new ring as I sat there, for it seemed strange--as well as nice--to wear it. “Think,” I said, I was referring to Miss Sheila and Mr. Wake--“how long it can last--” Sam moved his chair closer. “Yes--” he said, in an undertone, “think of it--” Then one of the long, French windows opened, and the wettest person I have ever seen came in, and she was followed by another one. “Tea,” said Miss Sheila, “how very nice--” and her voice shook on every single word. And then Mr. Wake said, “Ah, yes, tea!” just as if he had recently discovered the plant and the use for it. “Have some,” I said, “and Miss Sheila, you’d better go put on one of Mr. Wake’s dressing gowns; he has a lavender one that would be beautiful on you--” “What wouldn’t?” asked Mr. Wake. “If you think she’s pretty _now_,” I said, “You just wait until she has dried off!” “Dear, foolish child,” murmured Miss Sheila as she took off her entirely limp hat and ran her fingers through her hair which was kinking up in funny little curls all over her head. Then she sat down on a lounge that stood to one side of the fire, and Mr. Wake sat down by her, and kept looking at her, and looking at her, and looking at her.