from her hair, her neck, her arms--her whole sweet personality.
She was nineteen years old.

She sat down to breakfast and ate heartily, though with her
attention divided between Howard--who was atrociously bad, as
usual of a Sunday morning--and her father's plate. Mr. Bessemer
was as like as not to leave the table without any breakfast at all
unless his fruit, chops, and coffee were actually thrust under his
nose.

"Papum," she called, speaking clear and distinct, as though to the
deaf, "there's your coffee there at your elbow; be careful, you'll
tip it over. Victorine, push his cup further on the table. Is it
strong enough for you, Papum'"

"Eh? Ah, yes--yes--yes," murmured the old man, looking vaguely
about him; "coffee, to be sure"--and he emptied the cup at a
single draught, hardly knowing whether it was coffee or tea. "Now
I'll take a roll," he continued, in a monotonous murmur. "Where
are the rolls? Here they are. Hot rolls are bad for my digestion--
I ought to eat bread. I think I eat too much. Where's my place
in the paper?--always lose my place in the paper. Clever
editorials this fellow Eastman writes, unbiassed by party
prejudice--unbiassed--unbiassed." His voice died to a whisper.

The breakfast proceeded, Travis supervising everything that went
forward, even giving directions to Victorine as to the hour for
serving dinner. It was while she was talking to Victorine as to
this matter that Snooky began to whine.