Quite an hour after Stafford had started to meet Ida, Miss Falconer
made her appearance, coming slowly down the stairs in the daintiest of
morning frocks, with her auburn hair shining like old gold in the
sunlight, and an expression of languor in her beautiful face which
would have done credit to a hot-house lily.

She had slept the sleep of the just--the maid who had gone to wake her
with her early cup of tea had been almost startled by the
statuesqueness of her beauty, as she lay with her head pillowed on her
snow-white arm and her wonderful hair streaming over the pillow--had
suffered herself to be dressed with imperial patience, and looked--as
Howard, who stood at the bottom of the stairs--said to himself, "like a
queen of the Incas descending to her throne-room."

"Good-morning, Miss Falconer," he greeted her. "It's a lovely morning;
you'll find it nicely aired." She smiled languidly.

"That means that I am late." she said, her eyes resting languidly on
his cynically smiling face.

"Good heavens, no!" he responded. "You can't be late or early in this
magic palace. Whenever you 'arrive' you will find things--'things' in
the most comprehensive sense--ready for you. Breakfast at Brae Wood is
the most moveable of feasts. I've proved that, for I'm a late bird
myself; and to my joy I have learned that this is the only house with
which I am acquainted that you can get red-hot bacon and kidneys at any
hour from eight to twelve; that lunch runs plenteously from one to
three, and that you can get tea and toast--my great and only weakness,
Miss Falconer--whenever you like to ring for it. You will find Lady
Clansford presiding at the breakfast-table: I believe she has been
sitting there--amiable martyr as she is--since the early dawn."