"With all my heart!" said Sir Peter.
The white tablecloth was laid; the coffee percolator hummed its contented little song. The broiled chicken was delicious; and the browned potatoes. There was a grape jelly; Sir Peter was helped twice to this.
"Do you make it yourself?" he asked Mrs. Farquharson.
"Whoever else?" she answered.
"But you should taste her marmalade at breakfast!" exclaimed John.
"I like a good marmalade; we have the 'Dundee'; which is yours?" asked Sir Peter. He fell into their informal ways so easily.
"We make our own," said Mrs. Farquharson proudly.
"Upon my word," said Sir Peter, as he stirred his coffee with a tiny spoon, and accepted a match for his cigar—"upon my word, I haven't eaten such a dinner in years. So—er—companionable—you know."
At eleven, when they went with him to the door, Mrs. Farquharson met them in the hall.
"Good-night, Farquharson," said Sir Peter.