This room, in the forenoon, was on the shady side of the house—it looked on to a pretty garden, a small, level lawn of intensely green grass, jewelled with flowers. The windows, reaching to the ground, were wide open, and near one was drawn a small round table, on which was set a dainty breakfast-service of pink-and-white china, glistening plate, and crimson roses, standing out in pleasant relief upon the snowy damask.
"Beyond question, madame has a knack of making herself comfortable. I have seldom seen a cosier retreat on a broiling summer's day, and in this dusty, dirty town. She has not breakfasted yet, nor, except for my cup of coffee, have I. I will do myself the pleasure of joining her. A cutlet and a glass of cool claret will suit me admirably just now, and we can talk as we eat."
While he stood there, admiring cynically, Mrs. Wilders came in.
She was in a loose morning wrapper of pale pink, and had seemingly taken little trouble with her day's toilette as yet. Her negligé dress hinted at hurry in leaving her room, and she addressed her visitor in a hasty, impatient way.
"What is this so urgent that you come intruding at such an unseemly hour?"
"You grow indolent, my dear madame. Why, it is half-past eleven."
"I have not yet breakfasted."
"So I see. I am delighted. No more have I."
"Was it to ask yourself to breakfast that you came here this morning?"
"Not entirely; another little matter brought me; but we can deal with the two at the same time. Pray order them to serve: I am excessively hungry."