They entered the office. Mr. Langham could now see, having wiped the fog from his glasses. He saw a lovely girl in black, seated at a table facing him. Beyond her was a roaring fire of backlogs. Arthur presented Mr. Langham.
"Are you frozen?" asked Maud. "Too cold to write your name in our brand-new register?"
He took the pen which she offered him and wrote his name in a large, clear hand, worthy of John Hancock.
"It's the first name in the book," he said. "It's always been a very lucky name for me. I hope it will be for you."
Arthur had escaped.
"There is one more formality," said Maud: "breakfast."
"I had a little something in my car," said Mr. Langham; "but if it wouldn't be too much trouble—er—just a few little eggs and things."
"How would it be," said Maud, "if I took you straight to the kitchen? My sister Mary presides there, and you shall tell her exactly what you want, and she will see that you get it."
A rosy blush mounted Mr. Langham's good-natured face.
"Oh," he said, with the deepest sincerity, "if I am to have the entrée to the kitchen, I shall be happy. I will tell you a secret. At my club I always breakfast in the kitchen. It's against the rules, but I do it. A friendly chef—beds of glowing charcoal—burnished copper—piping-hot tidbits."