"No," he answered, "I am not tired at all."
"I am afraid you would not tell me if you were," she said. "You must come with me now and let me give you some breakfast."
She led him into a room at the side of the hall. When the house had been a "mansion" it had been considered a very imposing apartment, and, with the assistance of a few Washingtonian luxuries, which she had dexterously grafted upon its bareness, it was by no means unpicturesque even now.
"I think I should know that you had lived here," he said, as he glanced around.
"Have I made it so personal?" she replied. "I did not mean to do that. It was so bare at first, and, as I had nothing to do, it amused me to arrange it. Richard sent me the rugs, and odds and ends, and I found the spindle-legged furniture in the neighborhood. I am afraid it won't be safe for you to sit down too suddenly in the chairs, or to lean heavily on the table. I think you had better choose that leathern arm-chair and abide by it. It is quite substantial."
He took the seat, and gave himself up to the pleasure of watching her as she moved to and fro between the table and an antique sideboard, from whose recesses she produced some pretty cups and saucers.
"What are you going to do?" he asked.
"I am going to set the table for your breakfast," she said, "because Maria is busy with the children, and the other nurse is with Janey, and the woman of the house is making your coffee and rolls."
"You are going to set the table!" he exclaimed.
"It doesn't require preternatural intelligence," she answered. "It is rather a simple thing, on the whole."