Grey Roses - Henry Harland - Bog

I woke up very gradually this morning, and it took me a little while to bethink myself where I had slept-that it had not been in my own room in the Cromwell Road. I lay a-bed, with eyes half-closed, drowsily look looking forward to the usual procession of sober-hued London hours, and, for the moment, quite forgot the journey of yesterday, and how it had left me in Paris, a guest in the smart new house of my old friend, Nina Childe. Indeed, it was not until somebody tapped on my door, and I roused myself to call out 'Come in, ' that I noticed the strangeness of the wall-paper, and then, after an instant of perplexity, suddenly remembered. Oh, with a wonderful lightening of the spirit, I can tell you. A white-capped, brisk young woman, with a fresh-coloured, wholesome peasant face, came in, bearing a tray-Jeanne, Nina's femme-de-chambre. 'Bonjour, monsieur, ' she cried cheerily. 'I bring monsieur his coffee.