Arriving in the breakfast room at half past seven, Graham found
himself just in time to say good-by to the _Gazette_ man and the
Idaho buyer, who, finishing, were just ready to catch the ranch
machine that connected at Eldorado with the morning train for San
Francisco. He sat alone, being perfectly invited by a perfect Chinese
servant to order as he pleased, and found himself served with his
first desire--an ice-cold, sherried grapefruit, which, the table-boy
proudly informed him, was "grown on the ranch." Declining variously
suggested breakfast foods, mushes, and porridges, Graham had just
ordered his soft-boiled eggs and bacon, when Bert Wainwright drifted
in with a casualness that Graham recognized as histrionic, when, five
minutes later, in boudoir cap and delectable negligee, Ernestine
Desten drifted in and expressed surprise at finding such a multitude
of early risers.

Later, as the three of them were rising from table, they greeted Lute
Desten and Rita Wainwright arriving. Over the billiard table with
Bert, Graham learned that Dick Forrest never appeared for breakfast,
that he worked in bed from terribly wee small hours, had coffee at
six, and only on unusual occasions appeared to his guests before the
twelve-thirty lunch. As for Paula Forrest, Bert explained, she was a
poor sleeper, a late riser, lived behind a door without a knob in a
spacious wing with a rare and secret patio that even he had seen but
once, and only on infrequent occasion was she known to appear before
twelve-thirty, and often not then.

"You see, she's healthy and strong and all that," he explained, "but
she was born with insomnia. She never could sleep. She couldn't sleep
as a little baby even. But it's never hurt her any, because she's got