forget that breakfast. The grapefruit, the coffee in its silver pot,
the crisp bacon, the omelet, all served on beautiful dishes; and, to
complete her joy, a great Persian cat came lazily to her and rubbed
against her, begging for a share in the good things of the table. She
stooped down and stroked its soft fur.

"I am afraid that Nicodemus is very spoiled," the man said. "His
master always gave him a dish of cream at the table."

Drusilla laughed. It seemed the first human thing she had heard.

"Well, then, I'll spoil him too. What do you give it to him in?"

The man pointed to a silver bowl.

"That is his dish. Shall I give it to him?"

"No; let me," said Drusilla. "I want to do something for some one.
Let me give him his cream."

After that she did not feel so frightened and awed by the presence
of the man who waited upon her so deftly, and when he left she rose
and wandered around the room, looking at the flowers, wondering what
were the names of the many plants that were strange to her. Then she
went across the dining-room and up the stairs to her own rooms, where
she felt more at ease. She found them already arranged, and wondered
at the quickness and silence with which the work was done.

She did not know what to do, so she sat down again by the window to
wait for Daphne. While she was sitting there, the housekeeper came