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"Yah!" cried Battersea, derisively. "You're out of it. My mother white; but my father--" here he hesitated, and then resumed: "Yes, you're right. Dido; my father was a negro! A Seedee boy, who was a fireman on a P. and O. liner." "You ought to be taking more care of yourself," she said, with concern. "You're tired to death, and yet you come out of your way to see about Elinor. You look dreadfully fagged." "I don't quite understand.".
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"Pooh," said Patricia, turning from her own reflection with a gay laugh. "You don't need to try. I do worship beauty, and I always shall. I like to laugh and sing and be happy. I like blue skies because God made them that way. And I don't think a pink rose is wickeder for being pink than if it were grubby gray. I think being happy is the serious business of life—when you take other people in with you—and I reckon God thinks so too." CHAPTER XXI. A NINE DAYS' WONDER. "And a fresh suit is advisable, too," added Bruce. "I don't want my duds to come a week later, as they did in Milwaukee. I'll make sure this time." But as cruel as freezing is, it doesn't compare to the tortures of being melted. Jane administers it to me, and her faithful heart is so wrung with compassion that she perspires almost as much as I do. She wrings a linen sheet out in a cauldron of hot water and shrouds me in it—and then more and more blanket windings envelop me until I am like the mummy of some Egyptian giantess..
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