It was a fairly large room with a wide latticed window that overlooked the stone-cutter’s yard, for the cottage was to the side of the house and its three windows looked that way. Clean muslin curtains hung at the window, so that Jane-Anne couldn’t see out except when they moved with the breeze. The ceiling was low and an oak beam crossed it. Most of the rooms in the main part of the house were panelled, but here they were papered, and the paper was of a cheerful chintzy pattern with garlands of little pink roses. The furniture was all of brightly polished mahogany that had been in Elsa’s room at Remote, and it had that characteristic individual look only to be found in old furniture well tended by careful hands through many years. The Chippendale Talboys had a scroll top with a pedestal in the centre, and on that pedestal was a little brass owl. The handles had lost their lacquer with time, but the warm red wood was mirror-like in its brightness, and in the great "press"—a cupboard in two divisions with deep sliding shelves—Jane-Anne watched the reflection of the fluttering curtain with sleepy satisfaction. She had no idea why she liked these things so much better than the painted wood that furnished the bedroom in Jeune Street, but she did like them amazingly, and their presence filled her with such satisfaction as caused her for a little while to forget how exceedingly hungry she was. Presently the door was opened a little way and a fair curly head was poked through cautiously. Jane-Anne was lying with her back to the door, and all that was visible of her was a night of black hair streaming over the quilt and a long slender mound in the bed where her body lay. She was so still that Edmund thought she was asleep, and was going away again when something, some tiny sound, caused her to turn round, and she saw him. Edmund vanished like a flash and she heard his stentorian voice proclaiming: "She’s awake, Mrs. Dew; you can bring that chicken." Then he returned, and nodding at her in most friendly fashion seated himself at the end of the bed, remarking: "What an awful lot of hair you’ve got; isn’t it frightfully hot?" "I can never keep the ribbons on it in bed. I don’t mind it. I rather like to be hot." The two stared at each other, and Edmund decided that Jane-Anne looked nicer in bed than when she was up. The soft, shadowy masses of her hair were infinitely more becoming than the pie-dish. Her forehead was smooth and placid. There was no deep wrinkle between her black eyebrows. "I’m glad you’re here," said Edmund genially; "but it’s a pity you’re in bed. You might have done some more fielding if you’d been up." "I’m very sorry I can’t run after balls for you, sir," Jane-Anne said meekly, "but I can’t be sorry I’m in bed, for if I wasn’t I’d be going back to the Bainbridge almost at once, and now doctor says I can’t go for another fortnight." "And you’re glad not to go? Why?"