“I will tell madame’s maid.”

“Do so, and look sharp about it.  Don’t trouble about me—­be off and tell the maid.  I know my way;” and Mr. Hobson marched himself into the morning-room.

This room, in the forenoon, was on the shady side of the house—­it looked on to a pretty garden, a small, level lawn of intensely green grass, jewelled with flowers.  The windows, reaching to the ground, were wide open, and near one was drawn a small round table, on which was set a dainty breakfast-service of pink-and-white china, glistening plate, and crimson roses, standing out in pleasant relief upon the snowy damask.

“Beyond question, madame has a knack of making herself comfortable.  I have seldom seen a cosier retreat on a broiling summer’s day, and in this dusty, dirty town.  She has not breakfasted yet, nor, except for my cup of coffee, have I. I will do myself the pleasure of joining her.  A cutlet and a glass of cool claret will suit me admirably just now, and we can talk as we eat.”

While he stood there, admiring cynically, Mrs. Wilders came in.

She was in a loose morning wrapper of pale pink, and had seemingly taken little trouble with her day’s toilette as yet.  Her neglige dress hinted at hurry in leaving her room, and she addressed her visitor in a hasty, impatient way.

“What is this so urgent that you come intruding at such an unseemly hour?”

“You grow indolent, my dear madame.  Why, it is half-past eleven.”

“I have not yet breakfasted.”

“So I see.  I am delighted.  No more have I.”

“Was it to ask yourself to breakfast that you came here this morning?”

“Not entirely; another little matter brought me; but we can deal with the two at the same time.  Pray order them to serve:  I am excessively hungry.”

Mrs. Wilders, without answering, pettishly pulled the bell.

“Lay another cover,” she told the man, “and bring wine with the breakfast.  You will want it, I suppose,” she said to her guest; “I never touch it in the morning.”

“How charmingly you manage!  You have a special gift as a housewife.  What a delightful meal!  I have seen nothing more refined in Paris.”

There was a delicious lobster-salad, a dish of cold cutlets and jelly, and a great heap of strawberries with cream.

“Now get to business,” said Mrs. Wilders, in a snarling, ill-tempered way; “let’s have it out.”

“It’s a pity you are out of humour this morning,” observed Mr. Hobson, with a provoking forbearance.  “I have come to find fault.”

Mrs. Wilders shrugged her shoulders, implying that she did not care.

“It may seem ungracious, but I must take you to task seriously.  How is it you give me no news?”

“I tell you all I hear; what more do you want?”

“A great deal.  Look here, Cyprienne, I am not to be put off with stale, second-hand gossip—­the echoes of the Clubs; vague, empty rumours that are on everybody’s tongue long before they come to me.  I must have fresh, brand-new intelligence, straight from the fountain-head.  You must get it for me, or—­”