When they were dressed, the three of them walked quickly back to breakfast, for the morning air had developed their appetites enormously. Mrs. Dengelton and Eunice awaited them on the terrace, and they were soon seated round the well-spread table. Caliphronas, touching neither coffee nor tea, drank water only, and confined his eating to bread, honey, and eggs. His were the tastes of primeval man, and he strongly disliked elaborate dishes which were pleasing to the cultured palates of his more civilized neighbors. “I do not know how you can eat such things,” he said in some disgust, as Eunice took some curry. “Does it not make you ill?” “Not in the least, Count,” she replied, laughing. “It is a very depraved taste, I suppose, but I am very fond of curry.” “And tea—hot tea,” retorted Caliphronas quickly. “I have heard it said that tea is bad for the nerves. Ladies always complain of nerves, yet they drink tea.” “I could not do without my tea,” said Mrs. Dengelton, who was given to surreptitious cups of tea at odd hours of the day, “and yet I have nerves. Oh, those dreadful nerves! You don’t know what it is to be so afflicted, Count.” “No, I do not. I never had an illness in my life, but then that is because I live a natural life, whereas all you highly civilized people live an artificial existence. If you gave up your highly-spiced dishes, your strong wines, your late hours, your breathing of poisonous air, you would be as healthy as I am.” “Well, you can hardly call the air of Roylands poisonous,” said Maurice indolently. “No, the air here is delightful because you live near the sea. I could not dwell inland myself. I would die. I must breathe the sea air, see the wide waste of waters, hear the thunder of waves on the beach. That is the only life for a healthy man.” “You could not live in London, I suppose,” said Mrs. Dengelton, frowning on Eunice, who was talking in a quiet tone to Crispin. “London!” cried the Count, with scorn. “I would as soon live at the bottom of the sea. Indeed, I believe it would be healthier there. London, that crushed-up mass of houses inhabited by pale-faced people—I wonder they can exist. Oh, I saw and heard a good deal of London when I was there. Your people in the East End never leave those narrow streets from one year to the other. They know nothing of sunrise or sunset, for they only see those marvels through a smoky veil. They cannot tell a bird by its song—they know nothing of animals or their habits. Of the wonderful life of Nature which is born and lives and dies in the woods, in the seas, in the mountains, they are ignorant. They are born blind, they live blind, they die blind, and call such blindness life.” “But what about the people in the West End?” asked Mrs. Dengelton, with the air of making a crushing remark.