Gray Roses

Excerpt from Gray Roses
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 Iload. I lay a-bed, with eyes half-closed, drowsily 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, Kina 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-colored, wholesome peasant face, came in, bearing a tray, - Jeanne, Nina's femme-de-chambre.
"Bonjour, monsieur," she cried cheerily. "I bring monsieur his coffee." And her announcement was followed by a fragrance, - the softly-sung response of the coffee-sprite.
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