Cora and her room mate quickly dressed and went to the parlor, where they were relieved to find no Mr. Rockharrt and no table set.

Presently, however, the Iron King strode into the room, a morning paper in his hand.

“Breakfast not ready yet?” he sharply demanded, looking at Corona.

Then she suddenly remembered that whenever they had traveled before this time, her grandmother had ordered the meals, as she had done everything else that she could do to save her tyrant trouble.

“I—­suppose so, sir.  Shall I ring for it?” she inquired.

“Let me!  Let me!  Oh, please let me wait on you!” exclaimed Rose, as she sprang up, ran across the room, and rang a peal on the bell.

The waiter came.

“Will you also order the breakfast, Mrs. Stillwater, if such is your pleasure?” inquired Cora, who could not help this little bit of ill humor.

“Certainly I will, my dear, if you like!” said the imperturbable Rose, who was resolved never to understand sarcasm, and never to take offense—­“Waiter, bring me a bill of fare.”

The waiter went out to do his errand.

Old Aaron Rockharrt glared sternly at his granddaughter; but his fire did not strike his intended victim, for Cora had her back turned and was looking out of the window.

The waiter came in with the breakfast bill of fare.

“Will you listen, Mr. Rockharrt, and you, dear Cora, and tell me what to mark, as I read out the items,” said Rose, sweetly, as she took the card from the hands of the man.

“Thank you, I want nothing especially,” answered Cora.

“Read on, my dear.  I will tell you what to mark, and you must be sure also to mark any dish that you yourself may fancy,” said Mr. Rockharrt, speaking very kindly to Rose, but glaring ferociously toward Cora.

Rose read slowly, pausing at each item.  Mr. Rockharrt named his favorite dishes, Rose marked them, and the order was given to the waiter, who took it away.

Breakfast was soon served, and a most disagreeable meal it must have been but for Rose Stillwater’s invincible good humor.  She chatted gayly through the whole meal, perfectly resolved to ignore the cloud that was between the grandfather and the granddaughter.

As soon as they arose from the table old Aaron Rockharrt ordered a carriage to take him down to Wall Street, on some business connected with his last great speculation, which was all that his granddaughter knew.

Before leaving the hotel, he launched this bitter insult at Cora, through their guest: 

“My dear,” he said to Mrs. Stillwater, as he drew on his gloves, “I must leave my granddaughter under your charge.  I beg that you will look after her.  She really seeds the supervision of a governess quite as much now as she did years ago when you had the training of her.”

Corona’s wrath flamed up.  A scathing sarcasm was on her lips.  She turned.