"How's Mrs. Bolt?"
"She's all right, Mr. John."
"How's the baby?"
"The baby's all right."
"And the dog?"
"The dog's all right, sir."
"That's splendid," said John. "That's great. That's fine. That's capital. I'm delighted."
He smiled a radiant smile of cheeriness and good will, and turned toward the house. However much the heart may be uplifted, the animal in a man insists on demanding breakfast, and, though John was practically pure spirit this morning, he was not blind to the fact that a couple of eggs and a cup of coffee would be no bad thing. As he reached the door, he remembered that Mrs. Bolt had a canary and that he had not inquired after that, but decided that the moment had gone by. Later on, perhaps. He opened the back door and made his way to the morning room, where eggs abounded and coffee could be had for the asking. Pausing only to tickle a passing cat under the ear and make chirruping noises to it, he went in.
The morning room was empty, and there were signs that the rest of the party had already breakfasted. John was glad of it. Genially disposed though he felt toward his species to-day, he relished the prospect of solitude. A man who is about to picnic on Wenlock Edge in perfect weather with the only girl in the world, wants to meditate, not to make conversation.
So thoroughly had his predecessors breakfasted that he found, on inspecting the coffee pot, that it was empty. He rang the bell.