“And see you put it on that little parasite?  Not if I melt!  Do you know how deep the lake is?  Three feet!”

“One can drown in three feet of water,” said Aggie sadly, “if one is very tired of life.  People drown themselves in bathtubs.”

Tish’s furious retort to this was lost, Tufik choosing that moment to appear in the doorway.  He wore a purple-and-gold kimono that had given Tish bronchitis early in the winter, and he had twisted a bath towel round the waist.  He looked very young, very sad, very Oriental.  He ignored Charlie Sands, but made at once for Tish and dropped on one knee beside her.

“Miss Tish!” he begged.  “Forgive, Miss Tish!  Tufik is wicked.  He has the bad heart.  He has spoil the going on the canal.  No?”

“Get up!” said Tish.  “Don’t be a silly child.  Go and take your shoes out of the oven.  We are not going to Panama.  When you are better, I am going to give you a good scolding.”

Charlie Sands put the cigarette on a book under Aggie’s nose and stood up.

“I guess I’ll go,” he said.  “My nerves are not what they used to be and my disposition feels the change.”

Tufik had risen and the two looked at each other.  I could not quite make out Tufik’s expression; had I not known his gentleness I would have thought his expression a mixture of triumph and disdain.

“’The Assyrian came down like a wolf on the fold, and his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold!’” said Charlie Sands, and went out, slamming the door.

III

The next day was rainy and cold.  Aggie sneezed all day and Tish had neuralgia.  Being unable to go out for anything to eat and the exaltation of the night before having passed, she was in a bad humor.  When I got there she was sitting in her room holding a hot-water bottle to her face, and staring bitterly at the plate containing a piece of burned toast and Tufik’s specialty—­a Syrian cake crusted with sugar.

“I wish he had drowned!” she said.  “My stomach’s gone, Lizzie!  I ate one of those cakes for breakfast.  You’ve got to eat this one.”

“I’ll do nothing of the sort!  This is your doing, Tish Carberry.  If it hadn’t been for you and your habit of picking up stray cats and dogs and Orientals and imposing them on your friends we’d be on the ocean to-day, on our way to a decent climate.  The next time your duty to your brother man overwhelms you, you’d better lock yourself in your room and throw the key out the window.”

Tish was not listening, however.  Her eye and her mind both were on the cake.

“If you would eat it and then take some essence of pepsin—­” she hazarded.  But I looked her full it the eye and she had the grace to color.  “He loves to make them,” she said—­“he positively beamed when he brought it.  He has another kind he is making now—­of pounded beans, or something like that.  Listen!” I listened.