"Primitive hours, upon my word. When is breakfast time?"
"Nine, sir. The bell will ring in a moment."
It rang as she spoke, and Grace tripped away to take off her bonnet and smooth her hair, blown about by the morning wind. The Captain was in the dining-room when she descended, standing in his favourite position with his back to the fire, his coat-tails drawn forward, and his legs like two sides of a triangle.
"Are the girls up yet, Grace? Excuse the prefix; we are relatives, you know. Ah! here is one of them. Good-morning, Mademoiselle."
"Good-morning, papa," said Eeny, kissing him. "Where is Kate?"
"Kate is here!" said the voice that was like silver bells; and Kate came in, graceful and elegant in her white cashmere morning robe, with cord and tassels of violet, and a knot of violet ribbon at the rounded throat. "I have not kept you waiting, have I?"
She kissed her father and sister, smiled and bowed to Grace and took her place to preside. Very prettily and deftly the white hands fluttered among the fragile china cups and saucers, and wielded the carved and massive silver coffee-pot.
Grace thought she looked lovelier in the morning sunshine than in the garish lamplight, with that flush on her cheeks, and the beautiful golden hair twisted in shining coils.
Grace was very silent during breakfast, listening to the rest. The Captain and his eldest daughter were both excellent talkers, and never let conversation flag. Miss Danton rarely addressed her, but the Captain's cordiality made amends for that.
"I must see that brother of yours to-day, Grace," he said, "and get him to come up here. The Curé, too, is a capital fellow—I beg his pardon—I must bring them both up to dinner. Are the Ponsonbys, and the Landry's, and the Le Favres in the old places yet?"