"Oh, in size. Possibly. I haven't thought about it," came tersely from Marcia. "Let me see! We planned to have lobster this noon, didn't we? But that won't do for him. He will need something more substantial."

"There are chops," suggested Sylvia, following to the door.

"So there are!" Marcia brightened. "I'd forgotten that. We have had such a confusing morning—" absently she reached for the plates.

"Shall I put some potatoes in the oven?"

"What?"

"Potatoes. Shall I put some in the oven? For him, I mean."

"Oh, yes—yes. Of course. Chops and—" regarding the girl vaguely, Marcia fingered the dishes in her hand.

"And baked potatoes," Sylvia repeated, a trifle sharply.

"Yes. Chops and baked potatoes," echoed Marcia, dragging her mind with an effort from the[67] thoughts she was pursuing. "That will do nicely. And hot tea."

[67]

"Won't tea keep him awake?"

"I don't believe anything could keep him awake."

Marcia was herself now and smiled.

"Where do you suppose he came from? And how long has he been knocking about in that boat, I wonder," ventured Sylvia, her curiosity once again flaring up.

"How do I know, dear?" Marcia sighed, as if determined to control her patience. "You know as much about him as I do. I mean," she corrected, honesty forcing her to amend the assertion, "almost as much. I did, to be sure, talk with him a little while waiting for the doctor, but he did not tell me anything about himself."

"One would never suspect you were such a matter-of-fact, unimaginative person, Marcia," laughed Sylvia, "Now I am much more romantic. I am curious—just plain, commonplace curious—and I don't mind admitting it."

Again Marcia's conscience triumphed.

"I am curious, too," she confessed. "Only perhaps in a different way."

The moving of chairs overhead and the sound of feet creaking down the stairway heralded the return of 

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