king her seat and motioning Edwin, with a gesture of charming
authoritativeness, to sit down in the opposite chair, "but it is
horrible to eat alone. One never feels so inhuman, selfish, and hard
hearted, as when one is putting one piece of food after another into
one's mouth entirely by himself. I always begin to think of the
hundreds of thousands who have nothing to eat, and the thought disgusts
me with my favorite dishes, so that I can scarcely half satisfy my
hunger. But now look at this unruly rabble. How they quarrel and
scuffle over every little crumb, and the greatest eater there, the
little magpie, grudges the black bird every mouthful. Will you be
quiet, you ugly thing?"

She took a silver salt spoon and tapped the bird, that was giving
itself such airs, gently on the back, but without making any special
impression upon him, and then cut some little biscuits which had been
served with the dessert, into pieces, strewed sugared almonds over
them, and divided these dainties between half a dozen little plates,
which she placed in a circle on the table. The greedy birds instantly
assembled around their food; only a few timid ones that remained on the
side board preferred to take the crumbs she threw them, while the
boldest perched on the edge of the dish of fruit, and rioted
undisturbed on the magnificent pears and peaches.

Meantime she herself began to eat, after vainly urging Edwin to do so,
and finally insisted that he must at least try some of the sweet
Spanish wine, of which she only sipped a little from a slender crystal
glass to drink his health. She ate in the same manner, tiny morsels
which she took from her plate with the silver fork, and while busily
talking, partook a little more freely of four or five vegetables and
one sweet dish, but scarcely touched the meats. Edwin jestingly asked
if she were a vegetarian. She requested him to explain the word, which
she did not understand. "That's an excellent system," she said with a
thoughtful nod, "I'm really a born vegetarian, without knowing it until
to-day, and have often been laughed at in consequence. See that
partridge, how sadly it thrusts its roasted beak into its own larded
breast! I cannot look at it without reproaching myself for the happy
creature's early death. And I was not even personally acquainted with
the poor thing. But I could never have the heart to eat the chickens my
mother had fed herself. She called it affectation! Dear me, my appetit