"Doesn't one get up in Cuba?" I asked, laughing, as, in a negligée, I sat down to my breakfast.
"Not yet," she answered, "it's coffee ye have in bed, and then at eleven-thirty a real, big breakfast-lunch. Tea's at four, and dinner's at eight—unless ye'd rather it was different, ma'am," she added hastily.
"Not at all," I assured her, "I think it's a delightful arrangement. When in Cuba...." I began gaily.
"Smoke Cubebs!" finished another voice, and my husband's dark head appeared in the open doorway. "Good morning, Mavis. How did you sleep?"
"Beautifully," I told him, just a little bit embarrassed as his tall, bathrobed figure wandered unconcernedly in.
"Another cup," he said to Norah, with a side-glance at me and a careless, "with your permission."
I nodded—I couldn't very well do anything else, with Sarah there, and Norah beaming, and Peter dashing in to shriek loudly for milk.
In the general tumult, the macaw had started again,
"Norah!" it squawked. "Coffee! Coffee!"
"For heaven's sake," I said, "what sophisticated sort of a bird is that?"