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“After all, where else could I go, until I find a place of my own?”
    Phyllis was tired, and too angry to risk arguing, lest she lose her temper completely.
    â€œShall we skip it, for the time being?” she asked curtly. “I’m a bit tired.”
    â€œOf course, Cousin Phyllis,” said Anice, all sweet solicitude. “I’m a beast to upset you like this. How shall we manage about sleeping?”
    Phyllis glanced at the big, low double bed with its quilted satin headboard, and its covers neatly turned back.
    â€œThere seems to be plenty of room—” she began.
    â€œOh, but I couldn’t sleep with anybody—I never have. It’s silly of me, I know. I thought maybe we might draw straws, or toss a coin, to see who sleeps in here and who sleeps on the couch in the living room. Or we could take turns—I could sleep there one night and you could sleep there the next, couldn’t we?” Anice’s tone was that of one very gentle and considerate, who is speaking irrefutable logic.
    Staggered, and not quite sure how it happened, Phyllis found herself a little later making a most uncomfortable bed for herself on the chesterfield in the living room and wondering, a little dazed, what the future might hold for her if this blond, blue-eyed gentle-voiced child was going to be her apartment-mate for any length of time.
    â€œBeginning tomorrow morning,” she told herselffirmly, beating her pillow in a futile effort to make it seem less as though it had been stuffed with paving blocks, “I shall telephone everybody I can think of. Perhaps Mr. Rutledge might own a building somewhere with a vacant apartment. There’s got to be one somewhere! And soon!”
    She was awakened by the heartening smell of coffee perking merrily, and when she sat up, puzzled to find herself in the living room instead of in bed in her own room, it was to see Anice setting the table beside the window.
    Anice was crisp and fresh in a checked gingham dress and a coquettish little apron, every shining golden hair in place, her complexion fresh and glowing without the slightest artifice.
    â€œGood morning,” she caroled gaily when she saw that Phyllis was awake. “Breakfast will be ready as soon as you are—isn’t it a gorgeous morning?”
    Phyllis passed a hand across a forehead that ached a little and was conscious of an unpleasant taste in her mouth.
    â€œIs it?” she asked dryly.
    Anice looked prettily concerned.
    â€œI’m afraid it’s because you had too much to drink last night, Cousin Phyllis. You’ve got a bit of a hangover,” she said sweetly.
    Phyllis smothered the retort that rose to her lips and stumbled into the bath. A brisk shower made her feel better. The bedroom was in shining order; illogically enough, that added to her feeling of irritation. When she came back into the living room, dressed for the office, Anice was putting crispy golden toast and a jar of jam on the table.
    â€œI brought you some of Granny’s strawberry jam,”she said brightly. “I remembered how much you liked it. And Grannie had such a wonderful lot of canned things, and I knew they’d be hard to buy here.”
    She turned toward the kitchenette and paused to ask, “How do you like your eggs, Cousin Phyllis?”
    Phyllis barely restrained a shudder at the thought as she swallowed freshly squeezed, properly iced orange juice. Anice smiled and shook her head. A little later she came back with her own plate on which there were two tiny sausages browned to a turn and scrambled eggs which she attacked with gusto.
    Phyllis managed coffee and orange juice and toast and was glad when she could gather up her gloves and bag, and depart for the office.
    â€œWhat time will you want dinner, Cousin Phyllis?” asked Anice, following her to the door with a housewifely air that ruffled Phyllis a little, even though she knew her attitude was completely