"Let's make a scheme, Daphne. Your father is going to Chicago next week, and he told me that his brother--I guess he means this Jim--would take his place with me. Now, why can't I get in some kind of trouble--that's always easy for me--and I'll telephone him to come over right away, and then you come in by chance with this young lady. Tell her that I'm a feeble old lady that needs some one to cheer her up. Tell her anything that'll git her here." "She'll come. I've told her about you and she said she wanted to come to see you." "It's easy then, and we'll trust to something turnin' up right." Daphne rose to go. "You're a--a--brick, Miss Doane." Drusilla shook her finger at the girl. "Young lady," she said severely, "I know where you got that. Dr. Eaton." Daphne's pretty face flushed and she put her cheek against the faded one. "We must not talk of--of Dr. Eaton. Father doesn't allow it, and--and Dr. Eaton thinks I'm only a flighty little girl, who is never serious, if he ever thinks of me at all--which I am afraid is not often--" She was quiet a moment, her hand resting against the soft white hair. "But--well, good night. I'll let you know when Mary will come, and then you can get into trouble right away." Drusilla laughed. "You trust me for carrying out that part of it. Good night, dear." CHAPTER X The following Wednesday Miss Doane received a message to the effect that Daphne and Mary Deane were going in to the matinee that day and would stop to see her on their return. She passed the day wondering how she could legitimately get Mr. James Thornton to stop on his way home from the office; then Providence came to her aid, as it always did. James brought her word that the chef wished to speak to her. "What does he want of me, James?" James coughed discreetly. "I think you had better see him, Miss Doane." Drusilla looked at him sharply a moment. "Well, send him here," she said. The chef came into the room. She looked at the fat, mustached Frenchman for a moment before she spoke. "What do you want to see me about, cook?" The chef drew himself up. "I wish to pay my compliments to Madame and say I can no longer serve her." "You mean you want to quit?" The Frenchman bowed. "Madame comprehends." "Speak English, cook. What did you say?" "I said that Madame understands perfectly." "Why do you want to leave?" The Frenchman drew himself up tragically. "I can no longer serve Madame: it is not convenable to my dignity." "What's hurtin' your dignity?" "It is not for me to cook for a lot of babies, and--and--a nigger baby." Drusilla looked at him silently for a moment. "Um-um--I see," she said. "You don't think you ought to cook for babies. There ain't much cookin'; they're mostly milk fed now." "There is the porridge in the morning, and the soft-boiled eggs, and--and--" "Oh, you object to cookin' eggs and porridge. It ain't hard."