The morning light slanted through the tall French window panes, casting a glow on the silverware on the long table.
Lancaster Gate 36, the dining room of Sir Arthur Hastings' residence, was as quiet as ever, with only the ticking of the clock and the rustle of newspaper pages.
The maid, Becky, walked out from the kitchen carrying a tray, her apron hem swinging with her steps.
"Sir, breakfast is ready."
She set down the tray, the items still the old favorites of Sir Arthur: freshly brewed tea, soft-boiled eggs, toast browned to perfection, and several neatly folded morning papers.
The white porcelain teapot steamed on the tray, the scent of tea mingling with the smell of ink, unmistakably identifying itself as The Times.
"Thank you for your hard work, Becky."
Arthur sat by the dining table, draped only in a robe, with traces of last night's hangover still lingering on his face.
