"With three people," said he, "there's always somebody left out in the cold. Now we can talk in pairs."
Mrs. Fairchild was like a child with a new toy. Jeanne's room was newly decorated and even refurnished for her. It was the very girliest of girl's rooms and the windows overlooked the lake. Jeanne was glad of that. It made it seem like home.
Next, her wardrobe was replenished. Mrs. Huntington had replenished Jeanne's wardrobe more than once; but this was different. Loving care went into the selecting of every garment, and it made a surprising difference. Jeanne _loved_ her new clothes, her pretty, yet suitable trinkets; for Mrs. Fairchild's taste was better than Mrs. Huntington's and she took keen pleasure in choosing shades and colors that were becoming to Jeanne's gypsy-like skin. The Fairchilds were delighted with her appearance.
Roger proved a comfortable housemate. He wasn't a tease, like Harold. Jeanne neither liked nor disliked him. She merely regarded him as part of the Fairchilds' furniture--the dining-room furniture, because she saw him mostly at meals. Roger certainly liked to eat. When he discovered that the visitor showed no inclination to talk about his undignified tumble into the lake, he found her presence rather agreeable than otherwise. With Jeanne to consider, his mother hadn't quite so much time to fuss over _him_. He hated to be fussed over. Moreover, she couldn't look at Jeanne and the marmalade at the same time. Roger, who loved marmalade, was glad of that.
One morning the express wagon stopped in front of Mrs. Fairchild's house. The express-man delivered a large wooden box addressed to "Miss J.H. Duval."
"This must be for you, Jeanne," said Mrs. Fairchild.
"Why, yes," said Jeanne, eying the address. "I suppose I _am_ Miss J.H. Duval. I wonder who sent it."
"Let's look inside," said Mrs. Fairchild. "We'll get Roger to open it."
The box proved, when opened, to contain every garment and every article that Jeanne had left at the Huntingtons'. The things had not been nicely packed and were pretty well jumbled together.
"I guess," said Mrs. Fairchild, shrewdly, "they were just _dumped_ in. What _are_ they, anyway?"
"The clothes I left behind me," returned Jeanne, who had flushed and then paled at sight of her belongings. "I guess--I guess Aunt Agatha doesn't want me to go back."