Mr. Vyner drew a little nearer still. “Perhaps—perhaps ’dull’ isn’t quite the word,” he said, musingly. “It’s not the word I should—” began Joan, and stopped suddenly. “Thank you,” murmured Mr. Vyner. “It’s nice to be understood. What word would you use?” Miss Hartley, apparently interested in her father’s movements, made no reply. “Painstaking?” suggested Mr. Vyner; “assiduous? attentive? devoted?” Miss Hartley, walking toward the house, affected not to hear. A fragrant smell of coffee, delicately blended with odour of grilled bacon, came from the open door and turned his thoughts to more mundane things. Mr. Hartley joined them just as the figure of Rosa appeared at the door. “Breakfast is quite ready, miss,” she announced. She stood looking at them, and Mr. Vyner noticed an odd, strained appearance about her left eye which he attributed to a cast. A closer inspection made him almost certain that she was doing her best to wink. “I laid for three, miss,” she said, with great simplicity. “You didn’t say whether the gentleman was going to stop or not; and there’s no harm done if he don’t.” Mr. Hartley started, and in a confused fashion murmured something that sounded like an invitation; Mr. Vyner, in return murmuring something about “goodness” and “not troubling them,” promptly followed Joan through the French windows of the small dining-room. “It’s awfully kind of you,” he said, heartily, as he seated himself opposite his host; “as a matter of fact I’m half famished.” He made a breakfast which bore ample witness to the truth of his statement; a meal with long intervals of conversation. To Hartley, who usually breakfasted in a quarter of an hour, and was anxious to start for the office, it became tedious in the extreme, and his eyes repeatedly sought the clock. He almost sighed with relief as the visitor took the last piece of toast in the rack, only to be plunged again into depression as his daughter rang the bell for more. Unable to endure it any longer he rose and, murmuring something about getting ready, quitted the room. “I’m afraid I’m delaying things,” remarked Mr. Vyner, looking after him apologetically. Miss Hartley said, “Not at all,” and, as a mere piece of convention, considering that he had already had four cups, offered him some more coffee. To her surprise he at once passed his cup up. She looked at the coffee-pot and for a moment thought enviously of the widow’s cruse. “Only a little, please,” he said. “I want it for a toast.” “A toast?” said the girl. Mr. Vyner nodded mysteriously. “It is a solemn duty,” he said, impressively, “and I want you to drink it with me. Are you ready? ’Bassett, the best of boys!’” Joan Hartley, looking rather puzzled, laughed, and put the cup to her lips. Robert Vyner put his cup down and regarded her intently. “Do you know why we drank his health?” he inquired. “No.”