Louise was seated opposite, performing matutinal experiments, so it seemed, with pots, cups, an urn, and various infusions and crystals.
Pradelle was reading the paper, and Harry was dividing his time between eating some fried ham and glancing at the clock, which was pointing in the direction of the hour when he should be at Van Heldre’s.
“More tea, Louie; too sweet,” said the head of the house, passing his cup, via Pradelle.
The cup was filled up and passed back, Louise failing to notice that Pradelle manoeuvred to touch her hand as he played his part in the transfer. Then the door opened, and Liza, the brown-faced, black-haired Cornish maid, entered, bearing a tray with an untouched cup of tea, a brown piece of ham on its plate, and a little covered dish of hot toast.
“Please, ’m, Miss Vine says she don’t want no breakfast this morning.”
The Beloe bottle dropped back into George Vine’s pocket.
“Eh! My sister ill?” he said anxiously.
“No, sir; she seems quite well, but she was gashly cross with me, and said why didn’t Miss Louie bring it up.”
“Liza, I forbad you to use that foolish word, ‘gashly,’” said Louise, pouring out a fresh cup of tea, and changing it for the one cooling on the tray.
“Why don’t you take up auntie’s breakfast as you always do! You know she doesn’t like it sent up.”