On his way through the lower hall, somebody called him softly, and he saw Philippa in the music room, carrying a tray.
"Did you think I was going to let you go out without your breakfast?" she asked, smiling. "I have prepared coffee for us both, you see."
He thanked her, took the tray, and carried it out to the terrace.
There, as the sun rose above the bank of mist and flashed out over miles of dewy country, they had their breakfast together—a new-laid egg, a bowl of café-au-lait, new butter and fresh rolls.
"May I go with you?" asked the girl.
"Why—yes, if you care to——"
She said seriously:
"I don't quite like to have you go alone on that road, with so much confusion and the air heavy with the cannonade——"
His quick laughter checked her.
"You funny, absurd, sweet little thing!" he said, still laughing. "Do you expect to spend the remainder of your life in seeing that I don't get into mischief?"