Allston stayed on. This was at the suggestion of Howe. Certain parts of the wrecked car had to be sent away for and this took time. Besides, there was no especial reason why he should not remain, anyway--as far as he or any one else could see at the time. Both father and daughter proved congenial to him and he, apparently, proved congenial to them. He had driven far enough to get a certain amount of restlessness out of his system and the idea of basking for a while beneath this golden sun rather appealed. So Roxie cooked his breakfast and served it to him; so, too, she did his lunch; so, too, his dinner. She cared for his room--humbly, gratefully, almost religiously. She made his bed and smoothed out his pillows with her eyes aglow. She picked up all his things--he was none too tidy--and placed them where they belonged. She even polished his shoes. He caught her at it once. She was using his kit when by chance he came back into his room after some forgotten thing. She did not know he was there until she felt his hand on her shoulder. “Roxie,” he said quietly, “I’ll do that myself.” Startled, she faced him. “It’s a man’s job,” he explained. “But I don’t mind--honest I don’t.” “But I mind,” he returned. She dropped the brushes obediently and he went out. Allston had never been able to accustom himself in France to the sight of women burdened with the tasks of men. Roxie gathered brown-eyed Susans and placed them in his room--secretly. And happily. And when he came downstairs with one of the posies in his buttonhole, she felt like singing. He did not know she had picked them, but that made no difference to her. She was asking no reward for her service other than he had already given; other than he was giving her every day he remained. Allston, for his part, spoke her fair always; without either condescension or boldness. She was white; she was young; she was native. She was, he felt, in every way entitled to his respect. Even to the Howes she was more like one of the family than a servant. To Allston she possessed the added interest of a whimsical personality new to him so that he never missed an opportunity of speaking to her. “I suppose these folk are more nearly native American than most,” he once suggested to Wilmer. “The American of eighteen-fifty,” she answered. Hesitatingly one day Allston took from his wallet a dollar bill, prompted solely by the desire to recompense her for the extra work he felt he had occasioned. “This is for you,” he explained. “What fer?” she demanded. “For ribbons or anything you need. I’ve been a lot of bother.” “You ain’t bothered me none.” “But--” “You ain’t bothered me none.” “I’ve made you more work.” Her face colored as it always did in spite of herself when she tried to talk to him. “I don’t call that bother,” she replied. “Well,” he laughed. “Then all I can do is to thank you again.” “That’s--enough,” she said.