Next morning, Clarice and her brother were at breakfast together in a cheerful little octagon-shaped room, all enamelled white panels, delicately painted wreaths of flowers and profuse gilding. More snow had fallen during the night, and through the tall, narrow windows could be seen a spotless world, almost as white as the breakfast-room itself. But a cheerful fire of oak logs blazing in the brass basket, where the bluish tiles took the smoke, and in the centre of the apartment a round table, large enough for two, was covered with dainty linen upon which stood a silver service, delicate china, and many appetizing dishes. Clarice was a notable housekeeper, and knowing that Ferdinand was fond of a good breakfast, used her best endeavours to provide him with the toothsome food he loved. And this was somewhat in the nature of a bribe. "By jove!" said the young man, attacking a devilled kidney, "Jerce's housekeeper doesn't feed me like this." "Then why don't you come down here oftener, Ferdy, and allow me to feed you," suggested Clarice, artfully, and filled him another cup of hot fragrant coffee. "What rot--as if I could. Jerce keeps me at work, I can tell you. I scarcely have a minute to myself." "And the minutes you have are given to other people than your sister," said Clarice, dryly. "Ho! ho!" Ferdinand chuckled. "Jealous of Prudence." "No! I should like to see you married to Prudence. She would keep you in order." "Bosh! Jerce does that." "I doubt it, after what he told me last night." Knife and fork fell from Ferdinand's hands, and his rosy complexion became as white as the snow out of doors. "Wh-a-t--what--did he tell you?" he quavered, while Clarice looked at him, astonished. "Only that you are a trifle wild," she hastened to explain. "Why should you look so alarmed?" "I'm--I'm not alarmed," denied Baird, and absently wiped his forehead with his napkin. "That is, of course if Jerce talks about my being wild to you, and you speak to Prudence, she'll give me the go-by, like a shot. Prudence is awfully jealous." "I'm not in the habit of telling tales," said Clarice, dryly. "Jerce is, then. Why can't he hold his tongue?" "Is what he says true?" "I don't exactly know what he did say," said Ferdinand, irritably, and pushed back his plate. "You've spoilt my breakfast. I don't like shocks." "Why should you receive a shock from my very simple observation?" "Because--well, because of Prudence. I'm fond of Prudence, and I don't want her to know that I--well, that I--enjoy myself."