ng, hot-tempered peasant woman of Provence can possibly
be. Whatever the greatest geniuses of the kitchen can do, Felicite can
and will do, and she has a loyal affection for her undeserving master,
which leads her to attempt miracles and almost invariably to accomplish
them.

There are, however, things which even Felicite cannot do; and it had
suddenly struck me coldly in the sunshine that to produce proper cakes
and rich cream at ten minutes' notice in a creamless and cakeless
bachelor villa, miles from anywhere in particular, might be beyond even
her genius.

I found her in the back garden, forcibly separating the family pet, a
somewhat moth-eaten duck, from the yellow cat whose mouse he had just
annexed by violence.

With language which told me that a considerable quantity of pepper had
got into her disposition (as it does with most cooks, according to my
theory) she was admonishing the delinquent, whom she mercilessly
threatened to behead and cook for dinner that evening. "You have been
spared too long; the best place for you is on the table," I heard her
lecturing the evil cannibal, "though the saints know that you are as
tough as you are wicked, and all the sauce in the Alpes Maritimes would
not make of you a pleasant morsel, especially since you have taken to
eating the cat's mice."

"Felicite," I broke in upon her flood of eloquence, in my most winning
tones. "Something has happened. Three ladies have come unexpectedly to
tea."

The round body straightened itself and stood erect. "Monsieur well knows
that there is no tea; neither he nor the other milord ever take anything
but coffee and whisk--"

"Never mind," said I hastily. "There must be tea, because I asked the
ladies to have some, and they have said yes. There must also be lettuce
sandwiches, and cakes, and cream--plenty, lots, heaps, for five people."

"As well ask that serpent of wickedness, your duck, to lay you five eggs
in as many minutes."

"He isn't my duck; he's yours. You won him in a raffle and adopted him.
I suspect it's a physical impossibility for him to lay eggs; but look
here, Felicite, dear, kind, good Felicite, don't go back on me. Man and
boy I've known you these eighteen months, and you've never failed me
yet. Don't fail me now. I depend on you, you know, and you _must_ do
something--anything--for the honour of the house."

"Does Monsieur think I can command tea, cakes, and cream from the tiles
of the kitchen floor?"

"No; b