She leaned out and caught at the great barbed ropes of briar swinging loose from the wall, and pulled them up to her to plunge with the greater ease face and neck into the massed delicacy of the roses, pink and white and cream, twenty sisters to a stalk: and drew back at last, too drenched with dew to think of bed again, to have her bath and plan over the expedition to come. She sang herself joyful little songs as she sponged and splashed, till old Mr. Valentine at the other side of the wall, an early reader if not an early riser, drew the bedclothes about his afflicted ears. Grandfather and granddaughter shared an inability to keep in tune that was as constant as their wincing criticism of tunelessness in other folk. They were both fond of music; yet, where music was concerned, they had no sympathy whatever with each other. Gran’papa, an hour later, before his study window, his fiddle at his chin, filled the house with the staccato of _Duncan Gray has come to woo_, and was perfectly happy. But Laura, setting the breakfast table, wondered merely how long the canary would stand it and was impishly ready to applaud, with a chuckle and a chink of cups, when the sudden spate of shrill, contemptuous melody poured through the house like sunlight and left Gran’papa’s tune to glimmer wretchedly like a day-foundered glow-worm or belated will-o’-the-wisp. But who could expect Laura to have thoughts or sympathies for a grandfather when there was Cook to be interviewed, and a luncheon basket packed, and a new ribbon to be twisted round an old hat before ten o’clock and Justin came—or Gran’papa, fidgeted by the bustle, to remember very clearly those outings of his own with sandal shoes and a doll’s sunshade fifty years ago? The pair rasped each other throughout breakfast with the sour implacability and perfect mutual understanding of a couple of croquet players. Gran’papa bent his head reverently over his dish of whiting as Laura handed him his coffee. “For-what-we-are-about-to-receive-may-the-Lord-make-us-truly-thankful-_under_done!” he remarked. Laura was perfunctory in her concern. She was wondering, with an eye on the egg-boiler, if the eggs were hard yet and whether Justin would eat more than three. Gran’papa buried his hooked nose in his coffee cup, and emerged again, wiping his beard while he selected his epithet. “Dish-water,” he decided pleasantly. “And luke-warm. Another cup, if you please.” “Sorry, Gran’papa,” Laura prided herself on her coffee: could not be expected to agree. “Sorry! Sorry!” Gran’papa worried joyously at the word. “If it tread on a gentlewoman’s gown or commit a murder, ‘sorry’ is this generation’s utmost effort at apology.” Sandwiches ... and a lettuce ... an egg for herself and three for Justin.... Yes, that would do nicely.... Here Laura caught Mr. Valentine’s eye and realized that an answer was expected. “Oh, sorry, Gran’papa,” said Laura meekly and was instantly aware that it was the wrong one.