"Would Madame like her breakfast here," the maid asked, "or will she go to the breakfast room?"
Drusilla hesitated, as she did not know what to do.
"I think Madame would like to go to the breakfast room," the clever little French woman said hastily; "it is very pretty there, with the flowers and the birds. I will show Madame the way."
Going before her she guided Drusilla down the great staircase and across a room that was evidently the dining-room, into what Drusilla would have called a sun-parlor. It was a corner of the veranda enclosed in glass and filled with flowers and plants of every description, with birds singing among them in their gilded cages, and from it the Hudson could be seen, flowing silently to the sea. In the center of the room was a round table covered with a cloth which quickly caught her eye and charmed it with its dainty embroidery and lace, used as she had been to the coarse linen of the home. A man drew out her chair and she was seated, a footstool found for her feet, and breakfast was served. Drusilla felt that she could never forget that breakfast. The grapefruit, the coffee in its silver pot, the crisp bacon, the omelet, all served on beautiful dishes; and, to complete her joy, a great Persian cat came lazily to her and rubbed against her, begging for a share in the good things of the table. She stooped down and stroked its soft fur.
"I am afraid that Nicodemus is very spoiled," the man said. "His master always gave him a dish of cream at the table."
Drusilla laughed. It seemed the first human thing she had heard.
"Well, then, I'll spoil him too. What do you give it to him in?"
The man pointed to a silver bowl.
"That is his dish. Shall I give it to him?"
"No; let me," said Drusilla. "I want to do something for some one. Let me give him his cream."