“Now the kitchen,” he said, and we went thither.
A modern, immaculate kitchen it was, with all the up-to-date contrivances for lightening labour and for achieving quick results.
March took in most of it at a glance, pausing only to turn round a can of cocoa on a shelf in the glass-doored cupboard.
“Yes,” he said, smiling at Dora, “I think that’s the best brand, too.”
Then we went upstairs.
It seemed sacrilege to me to go into Alma’s bedroom, but March strode forward as a general to an attack.
He made no noise or disturbance, he opened no cupboards or bureau drawers. He looked closely at the bedside table, which showed only a reading lamp, a book or two, a small flask of cologne water and an engagement pad and pencil.
“Miss Alma has her breakfast in bed,” he said, interrogatively, and I wondered if he had seen a spot on the lace table cover, or how he knew.
“Yes, sir. Both—both Sundays and weekdays, sir.”
Dora was blushing furiously now, though I could see no reason for it at mere mention of breakfast in bed.