miling. That had always been a conceit of hers in Barbadoes.

Everything was simple but delicious. The tender, juicy chicken, the
delicate pink ham, the muffins browned to a turn, the Jersey butter
moulded into a sheaf of wheat, and moist brown bread of Aunt Marthe's
own making, the blocks of golden sponge cake, the crisp lettuce, the
fragrant strawberries, the cool jelly frosted with snow. Evadne drank
her tea out of a chocolate tinted cup, fluted like the bell of a flower,
and felt as if she were feasting on the nectar of the gods, while Mr.
Everidge's silvery tones kept up a constant stream of talk and Aunt
Marthe's beautiful hospitality made her feel perfectly at home.

"Tea, my dear Evadne," he said, as he passed her cup to be refilled, "is
an infusion of poison which is slowly but surely destroying the coatings
of the gastronomical organ of the female portion of society. I tremble
to think of the amount of tannin which analysis would show deposited in
the systems of the votaries of the deadly Five o'clock, and the
unhealthy nervous tension of the age is largely traceable to the
excessive consumption of the pernicious liquid. Chocolate, on the
contrary, taken as I always drink it, is simple and nutritive, with no
unpleasant after effects to be apprehended, but this decoction of bitter
herbs, steeped to death in water far past its proper temperature, is
concentrated lye, my dear Evadne, nothing but concentrated lye. By the
way, Marthe, I wish you would give your personal supervision to the
preparation of my hot water in the future. Nothing comparable to hot
water, Evadne, just before retiring. It aids digestion and induces
sleep, and sleep you know is a gift of the gods. The Chinese mode of
punishing criminals has always seemed to me exquisite in its barbarity.
They simply make it impossible for the unhappy wretches to obtain a wink
of sleep, until at length the torture grows unbearable and they find
refuge in the long sleep which no mortal has power to prevent. So, my
dear Marthe, see to it if you please in future that my slumber tonic is
served just on the boil. The worthy Joanna does not understand the
mysteries of the boiling process. Water, after it has passed the
initiatory stage becomes flat, absolutely flat and tasteless. What I had
to drink last night was so repugnant to my palate that I found it
impossible to sink into repose with that calm attitude of mind which is
so essential to perfect slumber.

"See