Jill the Reckless

Freddie Rooke gazed coldly at the breakfast-table. Through a gleaming eyeglass he inspected the revolting object which Barker, his faithful man, had placed on a plate before him.


“Barker!” His voice had a ring of pain.


“Sir?”


“What’s this?”


“Poached egg, sir.”


Freddie averted his eyes with a silent shudder.


“It looks just like an old aunt of mine,” he said. “Remove it!”


He got up, and, wrapping his dressing-gown about his long legs, took up a stand in front of the fireplace. From this position he surveyed the room, his shoulders against the mantelpiece, his calves pressing the club fender. It was a cheerful oasis in a chill and foggy world, a typical London bachelor’s breakfast-room. The walls were a restful grey, and the table, set for two, a comfortable arrangement in white and silver.