Sitting alone, waiting, Joan thought of Patricia more intimately than she often did.  She recalled what Sylvia had told of her; remembered the warnings, and her eyes dimmed.

“Poor old Pat!” she mused, “she’s like a pretty bird—­just lighting on things, or”—­and here Joan thought she had struck on something rather expressive—­“or like a lovely, bright cloud casting a shadow.  No matter what colour the cloud is, the shadow’s dark.  Dear old Pat!  Well—­I see the colour.”

This was satisfying and brought up her feeling about Patricia, which had been depressed.

And just then Patricia tripped in, humming and rippling and stumbling over a rug as she felt her way in the gloom—­Joan had not turned on the lights.  Presently she stopped short and asked sharply: 

“Who is here?”

Joan bubbled over and Patricia gave a relieved laugh.

“Lordy!” she gasped, “you gave me a bad minute.  I thought——­”

“What, Pat?” Joan touched the switch.

“I—­I thought—­it might be someone else.  I haven’t had a thing to eat since breakfast,” Patricia announced, dropping on a couch and pulling the cushions into all the crevices surrounding her thin, weary little body.

“I’ll get the nicest little meal for you in a jiffy!” Joan sprang to her feet.  “Is there anything to fix?” she added, quickly.

“There’s always something”—­Patricia closed her eyes—­“eggs and milk and—­and canned horrors.”  Then, with a radiant smile: 

“I’ve been on the trail of your man, Joan, and it was some trail.”

“Pat, darling,” Joan hung over the couch, “you take a couple of winks.  I’m going out to get—­a steak.”

“A what?” Patricia regarded Joan gravely.  “A brand-new steak for me?  Joan, you must be mad!”

“Pat, lie down and dream a minute or two.  A steak, fried potatoes, a vegetable, and dessert with coffee, cheese, crackers—­and—­and——­” Joan was putting on her hat while she spoke and Patricia was sniffing adorably.

A half hour later Joan crept noiselessly back, her arms full of bundles.  Patricia lay fast asleep on the couch.

Sleep does revealing things, and in spite of her hurry, Joan stopped and looked at the girl lying in the full glare of the electric light.

She was like a weary child.  All the hard lines on the thin face were obliterated; the soft hair fell in cunning curls about the neck and ears; the long lashes rested delicately on the fair skin.

All the world stains were covered by the sweet presence of Patricia’s youth, which had stolen forth in slumber time.

Then it was that Joan discovered that she was crying.  Big tears were rolling down her cheeks, and in her heart was growing a new, vital emotion—­a selfless, nameless, urging tide of protection for something weak and helpless.

When the meal was prepared Joan kissed Patricia awake.

The girl sat up and gazed dazedly at the small table drawn to the couch, at the candles burning on it, at the covered dishes from which crept the most bewildering smells.