The Little Warrior

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Freddie Rooke gazed coldly at the breakfast-table. Through a gleaming eye-glass he inspected the revolting object which Parker, his faithful man, had placed on a plate before him. Parker! 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 gray, and the table, set for two, a comfortable arrangement in white and silver.