He started guiltily.
“All right,” was his cheery response.
“Get up! It's nine o'clock. Or will you have your breakfast in bed, sir?” It was Lydia who spoke, assuming a fine Irish brogue in imitation of their little maid of all work.
“I'll have to, unless my clothes have come over!”
“They are here. Now do hurry.”
He sprang out of bed and bounded across the room. She passed the garments through the partly opened door.
“Morning!” he greeted, sticking his tousled head around the edge.
“Morning!” she responded as briefly.
“Don't wait breakfast for me. I'll skip over home———”
“It will be ready in fifteen minutes,” she said arbitrarily. “Don't dawdle.”