Arthur Ravener now, so it would not do to "trip." Matrons sail. That term has a very dignified sound in my ears. Before entering the breakfast-room, I peeped coyly in. Yes, there sat my husband, deep in a newspaper. He had already begun breakfast, and must have poured out his coffee, and buttered his toast with his own manly fingers. I walked in.
"Good-morning, Arthur," I said, coquettishly, taking my seat at the head of the table. Perhaps I had better confess that I felt a little nervous.
"You are late, Elsie," remarked my husband, laying down his paper. "I thought I would take the initiative and begin breakfast. I hope you do not think it impolite on my part?"
"Not a bit, I shall soon catch you up. I'm as hungry as a hunter. This Kew air seems to be invigorating."
In reality I had no appetite at all. The thought of breakfast sickened me, but I was determined, with all the perversity of my sex, that he should not know it.
"I am glad of that, Elsie," said Arthur, smiling at me kindly. He rose, poured me out a cup
