§ i
“ONE of Gilbert’s bad mornings!” thought Miss Dorothy.
And she slipped into her place behind the coffee urn, a little more ingratiating, a little more careful not to disturb him, than usual. He sat at the head of the table, glowering behind his newspaper, and by the very sound of the grunt with which he answered the cousinly good-morning, she was warned of what might be expected. She sat very still, in order not to attract the lightning.
He ate his grape-fruit, quite reasonably, and a little dish of oatmeal, and then Delia brought in the eggs and bacon. He glanced at the plate suspiciously.
“Are these Murray’s eggs?” he demanded.
Miss Dorothy sent the girl a warning glance.
“Yes, sir,” she said.
“You’re sure?”
“Yes, sir.”
“When did they come?”