"You find that makes a difference?" he asked gravely.
"Oh yes. Don't you? Come on. You're rather slow. Mother's going to have breakfast with you. Shall I carry your bag? I can, really. Well, let me help. I'm strong, you know."
On the doorstep Nancy met him, and turned her soft cheek to his mouth. "Tired, dear?" she asked in her sweet, high voice.
"Very tired."
"Get Father's slippers, Terry."
"I've lost another customer, and if this goes on—thank you, Theresa." He sat on the stairs, and unlaced his boots.
"Go and tell Bessie, dear. She heard you, Ned."
His anxious face took on a greyer shade. "Did she? How careless of me! Perhaps she did not understand. But indeed, Nancy, I am worried, and I cannot blame myself for this. A pure misfortune which might have happened to anyone."
"You shall tell me when you have had breakfast, dear. You must not get disheartened. If only you were a little more conceited, Ned!"
The breakfast-room in the basement was the most cheerful in the house. The kitchen was frankly underground, but the breakfast-room benefited from the sloping ground at the back, and its French windows opened on the garden. Here were the piano, Nancy's work-basket and novels, and the dolls which Grace had not yet discarded. The room had a pleasant air of use, and this morning a clean cloth was spread in honour of the master's breakfast, and Grace, inspired by Theresa's complaint, had arranged a spray of autumn-hued creeper on the table.