“This egg has boiled three minutes and three-quarters,” he observed, ceasing to contemplate it.

“Dear, dear!” said Lucy, “I boiled them myself exactly that time.  Richard likes them so.  And you like them hard, Mr. Harley?”

“On the contrary, I like them soft.  Two minutes and a half, or three-quarters at the outside.  An egg should never rashly verge upon hardness—­never.  Three minutes is the excess of temerity.”

“If Richard had told me!  If I had only known!” the lovely little hostess interjected ruefully, biting her lip.

“We mustn’t expect him to pay attention to such matters,” said Adrian, trying to smile.

“Hang it! there are more eggs in the house,” cried Richard, and pulled savagely at the bell.

Lucy jumped up, saying, “Oh, yes!  I will go and boil some exactly the time you like.  Pray let me go, Mr. Harley.”

Adrian restrained her departure with a motion of his hand.  “No,” he said, “I will be ruled by Richard’s tastes, and heaven grant me his digestion!”

Lucy threw a sad look at Richard, who stretched on a sofa, and left the burden of the entertainment entirely to her.  The eggs were a melancholy beginning, but her ardour to please Adrian would not be damped, and she deeply admired his resignation.  If she failed in pleasing this glorious herald of peace, no matter by what small misadventure, she apprehended calamity; so there sat this fair dove with brows at work above her serious smiling blue eyes, covertly studying every aspect of the plump-faced epicure, that she might learn to propitiate him.  “He shall not think me timid and stupid,” thought this brave girl, and indeed Adrian was astonished to find that she could both chat and be useful, as well as look ornamental.  When he had finished one egg, behold, two fresh ones came in, boiled according to his prescription.  She had quietly given her orders to the maid, and he had them without fuss.  Possibly his look of dismay at the offending eggs had not been altogether involuntary, and her woman’s instinct, inexperienced as she was, may have told her that he had come prepared to be not very well satisfied with anything in Love’s cottage.  There was mental faculty in those pliable brows to see through, and combat, an unwitting wise youth.

How much she had achieved already she partly divined when Adrian said:  “I think now I’m in case to answer your questions, my dear boy—­thanks to Mrs. Richard,” and he bowed to her his first direct acknowledgment of her position.  Lucy thrilled with pleasure.

“Ah!” cried Richard, and settled easily on his back.

“To begin, the Pilgrim has lost his Note-book, and has been persuaded to offer a reward which shall maintain the happy finder thereof in an asylum for life.  Benson—­superlative Benson—­has turned his shoulders upon Raynham.  None know whither he has departed.  It is believed that the sole surviving member of the sect of the Shaddock-Dogmatists is under a total eclipse of Woman.”