glimpse of the supper-rooms, but we saw a man
in the fourth story front room filling dozens of little glass vases,
each with its single malmaison, rose, or camellia, and despatching them
by an assistant to another part of the house; so we could imagine from
this the scheme of decoration at the tables.--No, not new, perhaps, but
simple and effective.

By the time we had finished our entree, which happened to be lamb
cutlets and green peas, and had begun our roast, which was chicken and
ham, I remember, they had put wreaths at all the windows, hung Japanese
lanterns on the balcony and in the oak-tree, and transformed the house
into a blossoming bower.

At this exciting juncture Dawson entered unexpectedly with our sweet,
and for the first and only time caught us literally 'red-handed.' Let
British subjects be interested in their neighbours, if they will (and
when they refrain I am convinced that it is as much indifference as good
breeding), but let us never bring our country into disrepute with an
English butler! As there was not a single person at the table when
Dawson came in, we were obliged to say that we had finished dinner,
thank you, and would take coffee; no sweet to-night, thank you.

Willie Beresford was the only one who minded, but he rather likes cherry
tart. It simply chanced to be cherry tart, for our cook at Smith's
Private Hotel is a person of unbridled fancy and endless repertory. She
sometimes, for example, substitutes rhubarb for cherry tart quite out
of her own head; and when balked of both these dainties, and thrown
absolutely on her own boundless resources, will create a dish of stewed
green gooseberries and a companion piece of liquid custard. These
unrelated concoctions, when eaten at the same moment, as is her
intention, always remind me of the lying down together of the lion and
the lamb, and the scheme is well-nigh as dangerous, under any other
circumstances than those of the digestive millennium. I tremble to think
what would ensue if all the rhubarb and gooseberry bushes in England
should be uprooted in a single night. I believe that thousands of cooks,
those not possessed of families or Christian principles, would drown
themselves in the Thames forthwith, but that is neither here nor there,
and the Honourable Arthur denies it. He says, "Why commit suicide? Ain't
there currants?"

I had forgotten to say that we ourselves were all en grande toilette,
down to satin slippers, feeling somehow