xclaimed.

"No, I proposed it, but she won't see any one. She assures me that it
will be all right by to-morrow and insists that it is not worth while
bothering about. She wants us to go without her."

"Well, at least I can go in and find out whether there is anything I can
do," I persisted.

"No, Dave, she told me that she wanted to be left alone. Please don't go
in. Her head aches so dreadfully that she must have absolute quiet, for
a time."

I looked at Frieda, helplessly, and she returned the glance. This was
not a bit like Frances; she is always so glad of our company, so
thankful for my stout friend's petting and so evidently relieved by such
sympathy as we can extend that we could make no head nor tail of the
change so suddenly come upon her. The two of us felt like children
open-eyed at some undeserved scolding.

"Well, come along, Frieda," I said, much disgruntled. "I suppose we
might as well have something to eat."

"I don't care whether I have anything or not," she answered, dubiously.

"Neither do I, my dear," I assented.

"Then put on your hat and coat and come to the flat. I have half a cold
chicken in the icebox and a bottle of beer. I don't want to go to
Camus."

So we departed, dully, passing before the door that had been denied us
for the first time in lo, these many months. The loose stair creaked
dismally under Frieda's weight, and the dim hall lights reminded me of
Eulalie's churchly tapers. On the way to the flat I stopped at a bakery
and purchased four chocolate eclairs wherewith to help console Frieda.
Once in the apartment, my friend seemed to regain some of her flagging
spirits. She exhumed the fowl from her icebox and cut slices from a loaf
of bread, while I opened a can of small French peas, which she set in a
saucepan placed on her gas-stove. Also, I laid the eclairs symmetrically
on a blue plate I took from the dresser, after which Frieda signalled to
me to open the bottle of beer and our feast began in silence.

"I wonder how Trappists enjoy their meals," I finally remarked.

"They don't!" snapped out Frieda.

Yet a moment later she was talking as fast as usual, giving me many
interesting details in regard to the effects of sick-headache on
womankind and gradually abandoning the subject to revert to painting.

"I have sold Orion," she said. "He is going to Chicago. I have been
thinking of a Leda with a swan, but I'm afraid it's too hackneyed. Why
don't you suggest something