"Everything."

They looked at each other a moment and then Jeff essayed a mild, "Oh,
come!" because there was nothing more to the point.

"I've taken care of myself," said the colonel, with more vigour, "till
I'm punk. I can't stand a knockdown blow. I couldn't stand your going
away. I went to bed."

"Is my going a knockdown blow?"

There was something pathetic in hearing that, but pleasurable, too, in a
warm, strange way.

"Why, yes, of course it is."

"Well, then," said Jeff, "don't worry. I won't go."

"Oh, yes, you will," said the colonel instantly, "or you'll be punk. I'd
rather go with you. I told you that. But it wouldn't do. I should begin
to pull on you. And you'd mother me as they do, these dear girls."

"Yes," said Jeffrey thoughtfully. "Yes. They're dear girls."

"There's nothing like them," said the colonel. "There never was anything
like their mother." Then he stopped, remembering she was not Jeff's
mother, too. But Jeff knew all about his own mother, the speed and shine
and bewildering impulse of her, and how she was adored. But nobody
could have been soothed and brooded over by her, that gallant fiery
creature. Whatever she might have become if she had lived, love of her
then was a fight and a devotion, flowers and stars and dreams. "And it
isn't a thing for me to take, this sort of attachment, Jeff. I ought to
give it. They ought to be having the kind of time girls like. They ought
not to be coddling an old man badly hypped."

Jeff nodded here, comprehendingly. Yes, they did need the things girls
like: money, clothes, fun. But he vaulted away from that disquieting
prospect, and faced the present need.

"Have you had anything to eat?"

"Oh, yes," the colonel said. "Egg-nog. Anne makes it. Very good."

"See here," said Jeff, "don't you want to get up and slip your clothes
on, and I'll forage round and fish out cold hash or something, and we'll
have a kind of a mild spree?"

A slow smile lighted the colonel's face, rather grimly.

He admired the ease with which Jeff grasped the situation.

"Don't you start them out cooking," he advised.

"No, I'll find a ham-bone or something. Only slip into your trousers.
Get your shoes on your feet. We'll smoke a pipe together."

"You're right," said the colonel, with vigour. "We'll put on our shoes."

Jeff, on his way to the door, heard him throwing off the bedclothes. His
own was the harder part. He had to meet the tired, sweet servitors
witho