He could with difficulty be restrained from telling Richard about the incident next morning, when that young man came to their rooms to escort them down to breakfast.

“I’m glad to have somebody pilot me,” Uncle Rufus declared, his eyes twinkling as he followed after his wife, who leaned on Richard’s arm.  “A man must have a pretty good sense of direction to keep his bearings in a house as big as this.”

Richard laughed.  “It’s rather a straight road to the dining-room.  I think I must have worn a path there since I came.  Here we are—­and here’s grandfather down before us.  He’s the first one in the house to be up, always.”

Matthew Kendrick advanced to meet his guests, shaking hands with great cordiality.

“It seems very wonderful, Madam Gray,” said he, “to have a lady in the house on Christmas morning.  Will you do me the honour to take this seat?” He put her in a chair before a massive silver urn, under which burned a spirit lamp.  “And will you pour our coffee?  It’s many a year since we’ve had coffee served from the table, poured by a woman’s hand.”

“Why, I should be greatly pleased to pour the coffee,” cried Aunt Ruth happily.  Her bright glance was fastened upon a mass of scarlet flowers in the centre of the table, for which Richard had sent between dark and daylight.  He smiled across the table at her.

“Are they real?” she breathed.

“Absolutely!  Splendid colour, aren’t they?  I can’t remember the name, but they look like Christmas.”

Neither Mr. nor Mrs. Rufus Gray had ever in their lives eaten such a breakfast as was now served to them.  Such extraordinary fruits, such perfectly cooked game, such delicious food of various sorts—­they could only taste and wonder.  Richard, with a young man’s healthy appetite, kept them company, but his grandfather made a frugal meal of toast, coffee, and a single egg, quite as if he were more accustomed to such simple fare than to any other.

The breakfast over, Mr. Kendrick took them to his own private rooms, to show them a painting of which he had been telling them.  Richard accompanied them, having constituted himself chief assistant to Mrs. Gray, to whom he had taken a boyish liking which was steadily growing.  Establishing her in a comfortable armchair, he sat down beside her.

“Now, Mr. Richard,” said she, presently, while Mr. Matthew Kendrick and her husband were discussing an interesting question over their cigars in an adjoining room—­Mr. Kendrick’s adherence to the code of an earlier day making it impossible for him to think of smoking in the presence of a lady—­“I wonder if there isn’t something you would let me do for you.  You and your grandfather living alone, so, you must have things that need a woman’s hand.  While I sit here I’d enjoy mending some socks or gloves for you.”

Richard looked at her.  The sincerity of her offer was so evident that he could not turn it aside with an evasion or a refusal.  But he had not an article in the world that needed mending.  When things of his reached that stage they were invariably turned over to his man, Bliss.  He considered.