“That is well,” she said cheerfully, and then the two climbed on to their chairs and drew their cups and plates close to them; while Grandmamma went round to her own end of the table, where—­for she was a very tiny little old lady—­she was almost hidden from view by the large silver tea-urn.  She went on talking to Grandpapa, and the children set to work at what was before them.  They were quite silent; not that they ever thought of really speaking, except when “spoken to,” at their grandparents’ table, but no little whispers or smiles passed between themselves as usual; they ate on solemnly, and somehow—­how was it?—­the honey sandwiches did not taste quite as delicious as they had expected.  But though each had the same sort of disappointed feeling, neither said anything about it to the other.

After breakfast Grandpapa went off to his study, and Grandmamma rang the bell for Dymock, who carried away the big tea-urn, the silver hot-water dish in which was served Grandpapa’s rasher of bacon, the knives and forks,—­everything, in short, on the table except the cups and saucers and the rest of the china belonging to the breakfast-service.  This china was very curious, and, to those who understood such things, very beautiful.  Grandpapa had got it in his travels at some out-of-the-way place, and the story went that it had been made for some great Chinese lady—­some “mandarin-ess,” Grandmamma used to say in laughing, who had never allowed it to be copied.  How it had been got from her I cannot say.  It was very fine in quality, and it was painted all over with green dragons, with gilt tongues and eyes, and the edges of the cups and saucers were also gilt.  There were large as well as small cups; the large ones, of course, were for breakfast, and the small ones for tea, but Grandmamma always kept out two of the latter for Duke and Pamela.  In those days one never saw large cups of oriental china, and this was what made the service particularly uncommon, and Grandpapa had never been able to find out if the large ones were really Chinese or only imitation, copied from the smaller ones.  If really Chinese, then the lady-mandarin was most likely an Englishwoman after all, who had had them specially made for her.

You will be surprised to hear that during the thirty or forty years during which Grandpapa and Grandmamma had daily used this precious china not a single piece had been broken, scarcely even chipped, though, by force of simple usage, the green dragons had grown less brilliant, and here and there the golden tongues and eyes had altogether disappeared, while the whole had grown soft and mellowed, so that a moment’s glance was enough to show it was really old porcelain.  And perhaps you will be still more surprised to learn how it was that these happy cups and saucers had escaped the usual fate of their kind.  It was because Grandmamma always washed them up herself!  I think there was no part of the day more pleasant