“I think this room is rather sweet myself,” said the girl, who also had been examining it very critically. “Somehow every room looks sweet with a nice fire and a lot of books.” “That unnecessarily large grate takes all the heat up the chimney,” said Mrs. Northcote, “and moreover is very wasteful of the coal. And what have you got behind the curtain, Henry?” “That is where I sleep.” “Well, that is sensible, my boy; a saving of money.” “What a large room this must be altogether!” said the girl, with a sudden growth of her curiosity. “I can see neither of you will rest until you have penetrated into the heart of all my mysteries,” said Northcote, laughing loudly, as he interposed himself between the entrance to his chamber and his mother, who, full of inquiry, was plucking at the curtain. “Why, Henry,” cried the girl, with a thrill of consternation in her voice, “you have not had your breakfast!” “Why should I? This is not Chittingdon, you know. Eleven o’clock is the fashionable hour in town. It wants ten minutes yet.” “Bad habits,” said Mrs. Northcote solemnly. “My dearest, eleven o’clock is wrong.” “When one is in Rome you must do like the Romans, you know.” “I have never agreed with that proverb,” said Mrs. Northcote. “I consider it weak. When in Rome one should make the Romans do as one does.” “Imagine me knocking at the gates of Buckingham Palace at a quarter to seven.” “I am quite sure, my dear boy, the royal family is addicted to good habits. I am quite sure you would not find the king having his breakfast at eleven o’clock.” “Oh, this dear dogmatic old woman of mine,” said Northcote, tapping her cheek in tender remonstrance. “A fixed rule and a definite opinion for everything under the sun.” “You must have fixed rules and definite opinions if you are to succeed, my dear boy. Those who have their doubts always end by failing miserably.” “So they do, old woman, so they do!” cried Northcote fervently, in spite of being stabbed by consternation. Yet he never conversed with his mother on the most trivial topics without feeling that her simplicity rendered her invulnerable. “I see your table is laid for two, Henry,” said the girl. “Are you expecting a friend?” “If he comes, he comes,” said Northcote, with a clever assumption of carelessness, “and if he don’t he stops away. Do you understand, Miss Inquisitive? I generally have an extra knife and fork, you know, in case a friend should happen to drop in.” “He will have a wretched breakfast this morning if he comes,” said the girl, taking off her gloves gaily, and fishing out the fork and the bacon from among the ashes. “I must say, Henry, whoever your friends may be, they cannot be very nice about their cookery.” “Consecrated by the cook, don’t you see, Miss Impertinence. That bacon is toasted by mine own fair hands.” “Really, my boy,” said his mother, “you have grown most Bohemian in your ways.”