Next morning, bright and early, they returned to the scene of their labors.
Marguerite, armed with a huge and fluffy feather duster, posed anew before the pier-glasses.
Helen seated herself at a desk in the library, and though looking like the primmest and most industrious of amanuenses, was in reality writing a letter to her mother.
But the cooks and waitresses went to work, and exerted themselves to the utmost to show those “English sillies,” as Marjorie called them, what an American breakfast in its perfection is like.
“She wants her hair frizzed again!” said Millicent, in tones of deepest disgust, as she came into the kitchen to fill an alcohol-lamp.
“Well, it’s lucky they selected you, Lamplighter, for that position; I couldn’t have filled it.”
“No; you couldn’t even have filled the lamp,” said Millicent, as she hurried to her uncongenial work.
The breakfast was ideal—beautifully cooked, perfectly served, and appreciatively eaten.
When it was over, Hester sat for a few moments on the vine-clad piazza that ran across the back of the house.
To her came Lady Pendered, stepping softly and looking cautiously about her.