Quite an hour after Stafford had started to meet Ida, Miss Falconer

made her appearance, coming slowly down the stairs in the daintiest of

morning frocks, with her auburn hair shining like old gold in the

sunlight, and an expression of languor in her beautiful face which

would have done credit to a hot-house lily.

She had slept the sleep of the just--the maid who had gone to wake her

with her early cup of tea had been almost startled by the

statuesqueness of her beauty, as she lay with her head pillowed on her

snow-white arm and her wonderful hair streaming over the pillow--had

suffered herself to be dressed with imperial patience, and looked--as

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Howard, who stood at the bottom of the stairs--said to himself, "like a

queen of the Incas descending to her throne-room."

"Good-morning, Miss Falconer," he greeted her. "It's a lovely morning;

you'll find it nicely aired." She smiled languidly.

"That means that I am late." she said, her eyes resting languidly on

his cynically smiling face.

"Good heavens, no!" he responded. "You can't be late or early in this

magic palace. Whenever you 'arrive' you will find things--'things' in

the most comprehensive sense--ready for you. Breakfast at Brae Wood is

the most moveable of feasts. I've proved that, for I'm a late bird

myself; and to my joy I have learned that this is the only house with

which I am acquainted that you can get red-hot bacon and kidneys at any

hour from eight to twelve; that lunch runs plenteously from one to

three, and that you can get tea and toast--my great and only weakness,

Miss Falconer--whenever you like to ring for it. You will find Lady

Clansford presiding at the breakfast-table: I believe she has been

sitting there--amiable martyr as she is--since the early dawn."

She smiled at him with languid approval, as if he were some paid

jester, and went into the breakfast-room. There were others there

beside Lady Clansford--most of them the young people--it is, alas! only

the young who can sleep through the bright hours of a summer's

morn--and a discussion on the programme of the day was being carried on

with a babel of voices and much laughter.

"You shall decide for us, Miss Falconer!" exclaimed one of the young

men, whose only name appeared to be Bertie, for he was always addressed

as and spoken of by it. "It's a toss-up between a drive and a turn on

the lake in the electric launch. _I_ proposed a sail, but there seemed

to be a confirmed and general scepticism as to my yachting capacities,

and Lady Plaistow says she doesn't want to be drowned before the end of

the season. What would you like to do?"




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