Her book was interesting, and there was a blessed freedom from interruptions. Rosemary was amazed when Sarah, warm and dirty from grubbing in the rabbit house appeared at the foot of the steps and demanded to know if lunch was ready. "Oh well, I'll make the beds and pick up after lunch," said Rosemary to herself. Shirley assumed the airs of an invalid at the lunch table and secured large portions of meat and dessert as a concession to her hurt finger. She ignored the vegetables entirely though the meal was supposed to be her dinner and Doctor Hugh had given orders that she was to be fed after certain rules. Winnie was put out because the iceman was late and her dinner supplies threatened to spoil and Sarah insisted on the hot-water heater being lit so that she might have hot water in which to wash her cat. The wrangle with Winnie over this continued throughout the meal. "I don't care whether you wash the cat or not," said Rosemary, when Sarah followed her to the corner of the living-room where the piano stood. "I'm going to practise, and don't bother me." "Silly old music," grumbled Sarah, "come on, Shirley, let's go sail boats in the bath-tub." Rosemary spent the afternoon at the piano, having promised herself that she would put in a full two hours over her music. The numerous interruptions spun out the time so that when she finally closed the lid the little clock on the mantelpiece chimed five. "Good gracious, the beds aren't made!" thought Rosemary and flew up the stairs. One glance into the bathroom halted her and cooled her energy. Shirley and Sarah had spent a busy afternoon, sailing boats in the tub. They had used every clean towel in sight to mop up the puddles on the floor and they were wet to their chins. Rosemary hustled them off to get into clean dry clothes and then worked feverishly to restore the room to a semblance of order. Aunt Trudy came home before she had finished and when she saw the unmade beds and the morning's disorder still untouched, she spoke her mind in no uncertain terms. "Everybody has a grouch," observed Sarah cheerfully when they sat down to dinner. Doctor Hugh had not come in. "Don't use that word, Sarah," reproved her aunt, sugaring a bowl of boiled rice for Shirley. "Don't want rice, want cutylet," said Shirley, pointing to the veal cutlet. "She's had enough meat to-day," interposed Winnie. "The doctor says she shouldn't have it at all at night." Shirley refused to touch the rice and was sitting in stately aloofness when Doctor Hugh came in looking warm and tired. "What's the matter?" he asked, dropping into his chair and testing the soup Winnie instantly placed before him. Hugh was her idol and she always managed not to keep him waiting. "Heat too much for you?" he added. "Grouches is what ails 'em," volunteered Sarah. "I've asked her not to use that word, but no one pays any attention to my wishes," sighed Aunt Trudy.