"I—er—took it down," he explained.
For some reason, Constance felt instantly that she had turned the tables on him since their last rencontre. She did not know why. He looked confused, for one thing: he was not so glib in speech, for another.
"Down where?" she demanded. "Not to the kitchen. I have been there since you brought up your breakfast and dad's on the same tray."
"I breakfasted alone," remarked Brand calmly. "Mr. Pyne had feasted earlier."
"But he had not," persisted Constance. "I wanted him to—"
She stopped. This impudent American had actually dared to wink at her, a confidential, appealing wink which said plainly: "Please don't trouble about me."
"You gave your tea and biscuit to somebody," she cried suddenly. "Now, who was it? Confess!"
"Well," he said weakly, "I did not feel—er—particularly hungry, so, when I met those two little girls foolin' round for an extra supply, I—er—thought nobody would mind if—er—"
"Father!" said Constance. "He has not had a mouthful."
"Then take him downstairs and give him one. You must have found my conversation interesting, Mr. Pyne, whilst I was eating. But, before you go, let me add a word in season. There must be no further discrimination between persons. Stand or fall, each must abide by the common rule."