"Good-morning, Georgiana," Helen greeted her, going into the
scullery--much more kindly than she had greeted her uncle. Instead of
falling on Georgiana and slaying her, she practically embraced her.

A gas cooking-stove is a wondrous gift of Heaven. You do not have to
light it with yesterday's paper, damp wood, and the remains of last
night's fire. In twelve minutes not merely was the breakfast ready, but
the kitchen was dusted, and there was a rose in a glass next to the
bacon. James had calmed himself by reading the book, and the period of
waiting had really been very short. As he fronted the bacon and the
flower, Helen carefully shut the scullery door. The _Manchester
Guardian_ lay to the left of his plate. Thoughtful! Altogether it was
not so bad.

Further, she smiled in handing him his tea. She, too, he observed,
must have slept ill. Her agreeable face was drawn. But her
blue-and-white-striped dress was impeccably put on. It was severe, and
yet very smooth. It suited her mood. It also suited his. They faced each
other, as self-controlled people do face each other at breakfast after
white nights, disillusioned, tremendously sensible, wise, gently
cynical, seeing the world with steady and just orbs.

"I've been reading one o' your books, lass," he began, with superb
amiability. "It's pretty near as good as a newspaper. There's summat
about a law case as goes on for ever. It isna' true, I suppose, but it
might be. The man as wrote that knew what he was talking about for once
in a way. It's rare and good."

"You mean Jarndyce _v_. Jarndyce?" she said, with a smile--not one of