“Thomas,” said Miss Royle, as she folded her napkin and rustled to her feet, “you may call up the Riding School and say that Miss Gwendolyn will not ride to-day.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And, Jane, you may go out for the morning.  I shall stay here.”

“Thanks,” acknowledged Jane, in a tone quite unusual for her.  She did not rise, however, but waited, striving to catch Thomas’s eye.

“And, Thomas,” went on the governess, “when would you like an hour?”

Thomas advanced with a bow of appreciation.  “If it’s all the same to you, Miss Royle,” said he, “I’ll have a bit of an airin’ directly after supper this evenin’.”

Jane glared.

“Very well.”  Miss Royle rustled toward the school-room, taking a survey of herself in the pier-glass as she went.  “Jane,” she added, “you will be free to go in half an hour.”  She threw Gwendolyn a loud kiss.

Thomas was directing his attention to the clearing of the breakfast-table.  The moment the door closed behind the governess, Jane shot up from her chair and advanced upon him.

“You ain’t treatin’ me fair,” she charged, speaking low, but breathing fast.  “You ain’t takin’ your hours off duty along with me no more.  You’re givin’ me the cold shoulder.”

At that, Gwendolyn turned her head to look.  Of late, she had heard not a few times of Thomas’s cold shoulder—­this in heated encounters between him and Jane.  She wondered which of his shoulders was the cold one.

Thomas lifted his upper lip in a sneer.  “Indeed!” he replied.  “I’m not treatin’ you fair?  Well,” (with meaning) “I didn’t think you was botherin’ your head about anybody—­except a certain policeman.”

Back jerked Jane’s chin.  “Can’t I have a gentleman friend?” she demanded defensively.

“Ha! ha!  Gentleman friend!” Then, addressing no one in particular, “My! but don’t a uniform take a woman’s eye!”

“Why, Thomas!” It was a sorrowful protest.  “You misjudge, you really do.”

So far there was no fresh element in the misunderstanding.  Thus the two argued time and again.  Gwendolyn almost knew their quarrel by heart.

But now Thomas came round upon Jane with a snarl.  “You’re not foolin’ me,” he declared.  “Don’t you think I know that policeman’s heels over head?” He shook his crumb-knife at her. “Heels over head!” Then seizing the tray and swinging it up, he stalked out.

Jane fell to pacing the floor.  Her reddish eyes roved angrily.

Heels over head!  Gwendolyn, pondering, now watched the nurse, now looked across to where, on its shelf, was poised the toy somersault man.  If one of the uniformed men she dreaded was heels over head—­

“But, Jane.”

“Well?  Well?”

“I saw the p’liceman walking on his feet yesterday.”

“Hush your silly talk!”

Gwendolyn hushed, her gray eyes wistful, her mouth drooping.  The morning had been so peaceful.  Now Jane had spoken the first rough word.