She aired her bed and ordered her room before breakfast; descended promptly, commented with Aunt Flora upon the weather.
“What a wind this morning, Aunt Flora!”
“Yes, indeed, and in the night.”
“It didn’t keep you awake, Aunt Flora?”
“Not the wind, no. I am not a good sleeper.”
Then silence; and Daisy or Sarah with the rolls and coffee, to ask in a low tone:
“Will you have an egg, Mrs. Fleming?”
“I think not, this morning. Perhaps Miss Gabrielle——”
For Gabrielle was not “Miss Fleming” really, although she was used to the name. Sylvia was that, always. Perhaps Miss Gabrielle would have an egg; oftener not. There was no deep golden corn bread to be anticipated here, as a regular Friday morning treat; but sometimes special muffins or a little omelette came up, and then Gabrielle always smiled affectionately and said to herself: “Margret’s here!”
After breakfast every morning she mounted through the large, gloomy halls to her room, wrote in her diary, went resolutely at her French or Italian. Then she went down to the square piano and began with scales, études and nocturnes, sonatinas. When the half-hour after eleven sounded, usually she went out, down to the shore, scrambling among the big rocks she remembered so well, watching this favourite pool or that, as it slowly and solemnly brimmed, overflowed, drained again.