The next morning it was a knock at her door just as she was
waking--or had it waked her? "Yes--what is it?"

"Do come out! I'm half starved."

The voice was pleading, not at all commanding, not at all the
aggressive, dictatorial voice of the Josh Craig of less than a
month before. But it was distinctly reminiscent of that Craig; it
was plainly the first faint murmur, not of rebellion, but of the
spirit of rebellion. Margaret retorted with an icily polite,
"Please don't wait for me."

"Yes, I'll wait. But be as quick as you can."

Margaret neither hastened nor dallied. She came forth at the end
of an hour and a half. Josh, to her surprise, greeted her as if
she had not kept him waiting an instant; not a glance of
sullenness, no suppressed irritation in his voice. Next morning
the knock was a summons.

"Margaret! I say, Margaret!" came in tones made bold and fierce by
hunger. "I've been waiting nearly two hours."

"For what?" inquired she frigidly from the other side of the door.

"For breakfast."

"Oh! Go ahead with it. I'm not even up yet."