Perhaps if Edith, the discoverer, had had time, she might have satisfied Emily. But a knock sounded at the outer door; it was the luggage boy. And while he brought in their suitcases there came from downstairs the ringing of the luncheon bell. Father mustn’t be kept waiting. Once a bell had gone he liked to follow it up right then. So without even a glance at the mirror—they had reached the age when it is as natural to avoid mirrors as it is to peer into them when one is young—Edith and Emily were ready. “Are you ready, girls?” “Yes, Father dear.” And off they went again, to the left, to the right, down a stone staircase with a broad, worn balustrade, to the left again, finding their way as if by instinct—Edith first, then Father, and Emily close behind. But when they reached the _salle à manger_, which was as big as a ball-room, it was still empty. All gay, all glittering, the long French windows open on to the green and gold garden, the _salle à manger_ stretched before them. And the fifty little tables with the fifty pots of dahlias looked as if they might begin dancing with.... ALL SERENE At breakfast that morning they were in wonderfully good spirits. Who was responsible—he or she? It was true she made a point of looking her best in the morning; she thought it part of her duty to him—to their love, even, to wear charming little caps, funny little coats, coloured mules at breakfast time, and to see that the table was perfect as he and she—fastidious pair!—understood the word. But he, too, so fresh, well-groomed and content, contributed his share.... She had been down first, sitting at her place when he came in. He leaned over the back of her chair, his hands on her shoulders; he bent down and lightly rubbed his cheek against hers, murmuring gently but with just enough pride of proprietorship to make her flush with delight, “Give me my tea, love.” And she lifted the silver teapot that had a silver pear modelled on the lid and gave him his tea. “Thanks.... You know you look awfully well this morning!” “Do I?” “Yes. Do that again. Look at me again. It’s your eyes. They’re like a child’s. I’ve never known anyone have such shining eyes as you.” “Oh, dear!” She sighed for joy. “I do love having sweet things said to me!” “Yes, you do—spoilt child! Shall I give you some of this?” “No, thank you.... Darling!” Her hand flew across the table and clasped his hand. “Yes?” But she said nothing, only “Darling!” again. There was the look on his face she loved—a kind of sweet jesting. He was pretending he didn’t know what she meant, and yet of course he did know. He was pretending to be feeling “Here she is—trust a woman—all ready for a passionate love scene over the breakfast table at nine o’clock in the morning.” But she wasn’t deceived. She knew he felt just the same as she did. That amused tolerance, that mock despair was part of the ways of men—no more. “May I be allowed to _use_ this knife please, or to put it down?”