When the hat had been disposed of, on top of a pile of material which was itself piled on a box of yarn, Jean turned to say: “I know, Eileen. I’m sorry. You’re nice to be nice about it. I couldn’t drag myself out of bed. I have a headache.” “What! You never have a headache.” “I know. I’m out for a record. You’d better phone Muir & Beebe and tell them a week from Monday.” “I suppose I’ll have to.” Miss Delaney started off, then turned back. “Did Cora tell you about your caller?” “No, I hurried through. Who was it?” “Not was. Is. He’s out in the big room, said he’d like to see the looms going. He’s been here since ten o’clock. It’s your Indian.” “My—You don’t mean Guy Carew?” “Right.” “What—” Jean stared. “What does he want?” “I didn’t ask him. I presume his collar is choking him and he wants help.” Jean slowly got on to the stool, rested her elbows on the table and her forehead on her fists, and closed her eyes.
