“Olive,” he said.

“What is it?”

She was putting hats into the top of her trunk.  She had a special hat-box, but the hats were too large for it, and she packed minor trifles in the hat-box, such as skirts.  This was one of the details which first indicated to an astounded Edward Coe that a woman is never less like a man than when travelling.

“Come here,” he commanded her.

She obeyed.

“Look at that,” he commanded her, pointing to the scene of which the window was the frame.

She obeyed.  She also looked at him with her dark, passionate, and yet half-mocking eyes.

“Yes,” she said, “and who’s going to make that trunk lock?”

She snapped her fingers at the sweet morning influences of Nature, to which he was peculiarly sensitive.  And yet he was delighted.  He found it entirely delicious that she should say, when called upon to admire Nature:  “Who’s going to make that trunk lock?”

He stroked her hair.

“It’s no use trying to keep your hair decent at the seaside,” she remarked, pouting exquisitely.

He explained that his hand was offering no criticism of her hair.  And then there was a knock at the bedroom door, and Olive Two jumped a little away from her husband.

“Come in,” he cried, pretending to be as bold as a lion.

However, he had forgotten that the door was locked, and he had to go and open it.

A tray with coffee and milk and sugar and slices of bread-and-butter was in the doorway, and behind the tray the little parlour-maid of the little hotel.  He greeted the girl and instructed her to carry the tray to the table by the window.

“You are prompt,” said Olive Two, kindly.  She had got up so miraculously early herself that she was startled to see any other woman up quite as early.  And also she was a little surprised that the parlour-maid showed no surprise at these very unusual hours.

“Yes’m,” replied the parlour-maid, wondering why Olive Two was so excited.  The parlour-maid arose at five-thirty every morning of her life, except on special occasions, when she arose at four-thirty to assist in pastoral affairs.

“All right, this coffee, eh?” murmured Edward Coe as he put down the steaming cup after his first sip.  They were alone again, seated opposite each other at the small table by the window.

Olive Two nodded.

It must not be supposed that this was the one unique dreamed-of hotel in England where the coffee is good of its own accord.  No!  In the matter of coffee this hotel was just like all other hotels.  Only Olive Two had taken special precautions about that coffee.  She had been into the hotel kitchen on the previous evening about that coffee.

“By the way,” she asked, “where’s the sun?”

“The sun doesn’t happen to be up yet,” said Edward.  He looked at his diary and then at his watch.  “Unless something goes wrong, you’ll be seeing it inside of three minutes.”