tails, and flickered the lights, and even handled Wych Hazel's
new veil. I think nothing but the new travelling dress kept
her from shivering, as they went up the inn steps. People
seeking their fortunes may at least _want_ their breakfast.

But Mr. Falkirk was perverse. As they entered the hall, a
waiter threw open the door into the long breakfast room--
delicious with its fire and lights and coffee--(neither did the
voices sound ill), but Mr. Falkirk stopped short.

'Is that the only fire you've got? I want breakfast in a
private room.'

Now Mr. Falkirk's tone was sometimes one that nobody would
think of answering in words,--of course, the waiter could do
nothing but wheel about and open another door next to the
first.

'Ah!' Mr. Falkirk said with immense satisfaction, as they
stepped in.

'Ah!'--repeated his ward rather mockingly. 'Mr. Falkirk, this
room is cold.'

Mr. Falkirk took the poker and gave the fire such a punch that
it must have blazed uninterruptedly for half a day after.

'Cold, my dear?' he said beamingly--'no one can be cold long
before such a fire as that. And breakfast will be here in a
moment. If it comes before I get back, don't wait for me. How