some time. “I can’t make cardboard boxes, you know. It’s perfectly useless, my going into a factory. Wheels and belts and things always give me the maddest longing to jump into them—I couldn’t resist it! And that would be so unpleasant—”
She dropped her wool and clasped her hands under it.
“Oh, Mr. Welles,” she cried eagerly, “how absurd! As if I meant that! As if I meant anything like it!”
“Had you thought of anything, then?” he asked interestedly.
She nodded gravely. “Why, yes,” she said. “It wouldn’t be right for me to say you must do something, and then offer no suggestions whatever, knowing as I do how you feel about it. I thought of such a good plan, and one that would be the best possible answer to Tom—”
“Oh, good heavens!” murmured her lodger, but she went on quickly: “You know I was going to open the soup-
