The words seemed to have come out of a confused memory of plays and novels.
She inclined her head--a little on one side, and looked towards Dickson.
"Sir Archibald's going to do his best for us," said that squire of dames.

"I was telling him that we had had our breakfast." "Let's get out of this sepulchre," said their host, who was recovering himself.

"There's a roasting fire in my den.

Of course you'll have something to eat--hot coffee, anyhow--I've trained my cook to make coffee like a Frenchwoman.

The housekeeper will take charge of you, if you want to tidy up, and you must excuse our ramshackle ways, please.