Then she closed her window.
The informative Fletcher told Steele that the breakfast hour was nine, and the grandfather clock was striking as he entered the dining-room next morning. The fragrance of the coffee-urn was stimulating to a man from the keen outer air, and the girl who presided over it turned towards him a smiling face, radiant as the dawn. Steele spread out his arms.
“What do you think of this?” he cried, jovial as a lad with a holiday. “This is the other suit.”
“Dear me!” replied Constance Berrington. “How came it here?”
“I was up this morning before five, donned my rags, tramped to my hut, comforted my negro, who was nearly white with panic at my absence, put on the other suit, and here I am.”
“Well, if you do not enjoy your breakfast after that, I shall admit my cook inferior to your negro. Why didn’t you take one of the horses?”
“Never thought of it. I seemed to be walking in midair.”
“Then come down to earth, and buckwheat pancakes and maple syrup. Do you prefer tea or coffee?”
“Oh, coffee, of course. The aroma excels all the perfumes of Araby.”
The breakfast was even more intimate and delightful than the dinner had been. Daylight had not removed the glamour of the moon from the land of enchantment. When the meal was finished, Constance Berrington rose and said: “Before you go, I wish to show you my library.”