CHAPTER XV.
Quite an hour after Stafford had started to meet Ida, Miss Falconer made her appearance, coming slowly down the stairs in the daintiest of morning frocks, with her auburn hair shining like old gold in the sunlight, and an expression of languor in her beautiful face which would have done credit to a hot-house lily.
She had slept the sleep of the just--the maid who had gone to wake her with her early cup of tea had been almost startled by the statuesqueness of her beauty, as she lay with her head pillowed on her snow-white arm and her wonderful hair streaming over the pillow--had suffered herself to be dressed with imperial patience, and looked--as Howard, who stood at the bottom of the stairs--said to himself, "like a queen of the Incas descending to her throne-room." "Good-morning, Miss Falconer," he greeted her.

"It's a lovely morning; you'll find it nicely aired." She smiled languidly.
"That means that I am late." she said, her eyes resting languidly on his cynically smiling face.
"Good heavens, no!" he responded.

"You can't be late or early in this magic palace.

Whenever you 'arrive' you will find things--'things' in the most comprehensive sense--ready for you.

Breakfast at Brae Wood is the most moveable of feasts.