Now what about breakfast?
You've sold all your papers, you know." "I'm fair ready for it, y'r gryce," was the reply, and now the lad's glance went eagerly towards the door, for the tension of labour was relaxed, and hunger was scraping hard at his vitals.
"Well, sit down--this breakfast isn't cold yet....

But, no, you'd better have a wash-up first, if you can wait," Stafford added, and rang a bell.
"Wot, 'ere--brekfist wiv y'r gryce 'ere ?" "Well, I've had mine"-- Stafford made a slight grimace--"and there's plenty left for you, if you don't mind eating after me." "I dusted me clothes dis mornin'," said the boy, with an attempt to justify his decision to eat this noble breakfast.

"An' I washed me 'ends--but pypers is muck," he added.
A moment later he was in the fingers of Gleg the valet in the bath-room, and Stafford set to work to make the breakfast piping hot again.

It was an easy task, as heaters were inseparable from his bachelor meals, and, though this was only the second breakfast he had eaten since his return to England after three years' absence, everything was in order.
For Gleg was still more the child of habit--and decorous habit--than himself.

It was not the first time that Gleg had had to deal with his master's philanthropic activities.