“There’s worse places than this,” Ellie said, watching her small daughter begin on her waffle.  A general nodding of heads in a contented silence indicated that there was some happiness in the Breckenridge household even though it was below stairs.

Rachael’s sombre revery was presently interrupted by the smooth crushing of wheels on the pebbled drive and the announcement of Mrs. Haviland, who followed her name promptly into the breakfast-room.  A fine, large, beautifully gowned woman, with a prayer book in her white-gloved hand, and a veil holding her close, handsome spring hat in place, she glanced at the coffee and hot bread with superiority only possible to a person whose own breakfast is several hours past.

“Rachael, you lazy woman!” said Florence Haviland lightly, breathing deep, as a heavy woman in tight corsets must perforce breathe on a warm spring morning.  “Do you realize that it’s almost eleven o’clock?”

“Perfectly!” Mrs. Breckenridge said.  “I slept until nine, and felt quite proud of myself to think that I had got through so much of the day!”

Mrs. Haviland gave her a sharp look in answer, not quite disapproving, yet far from pleased.

“I started the girlies off to eight o’clock service,” she said capably.  “Fraulien went with them, and that leaves the maids free to go when they please.”  This was one of Mrs. Haviland’s favorite illusions.  “Gardner begged off this morning, he’s been so good about going lately that I couldn’t very well refuse, so I started early and have just dropped him at the club.”

“Was Gardner at the Berry Stokes bachelor dinner on Friday night?” asked Rachael.  Mrs. Haviland was all comprehension at once.

“No, he couldn’t.  Mr. Payne of the London branch was here you know, and Gardner’s been terribly tied.  He left yesterday, thank goodness.  Clarence went of course?  Oh, dear, dear, dear!”

The last three words came on a gentle sigh.  Clarence’s sister compressed her lips and shook her handsome head.

“Is he very bad?” she asked reluctantly.

“Pretty much as usual,” Rachael answered philosophically.  “I had Greg in.”  And suddenly, unexpectedly, she felt a quick happy flutter at her heart, and a roseate mist drifted before her eyes.

“It’s disgraceful!” Mrs. Haviland said, eying Rachael hopefully for a wifely denial.  As this was not forthcoming, she went on briskly:  “However, my dear, Clarence isn’t the only one!  They say Fred Bowditch is actually”—­her voice sank to a discreet undertone as she added the word—­“violent; and poor Lucy Pickering needed a rest cure the moment she got her divorce, she was in such a nervous state.  I’m not defending Clarence—­”

“What are you doing, then?” Rachael asked, with her cool smile.

“Well, I—­” Mrs. Haviland, who had been drifting comfortably along on a tide of words, stopped, a little at a loss.  “I hope I don’t have to defend your own husband to you, Rachael,” she said reproachfully.