e mid-day and evening meals were sent from
"La Cigogne," close by, in four large round tins that fitted into
each other, and were carried in a wicker-work cylindrical basket.
And it was little Frau's delight to descant on the qualities of the
menu as she dished and served it. I will not attempt to do so.

But after little Frau had cleared it all away, Barty would descant
on the qualities of certain English dishes he remembered, to the
immense amusement of Aunt Caroline, who was reasonably fond of what
is good to eat.

He would paint in words (he was better in words than any other
medium--oil, water, or distemper) the boiled leg of mutton, not
overdone; the mashed turnips; the mealy potato; the caper-sauce. He
would imitate the action of the carver and the sound of the
carving-knife making its first keen cut while the hot pink gravy
runs down the sides. Then he would wordily paint a French roast
chicken and its rich brown gravy and its water-cresses; the pommes
sautees; the crisp, curly salade aux fines herbes! And Lady
Caroline, still hungry, would laugh till her eyes watered, as well
as her mouth.

When it came to the sweets, the apple-puddings and gooseberry-pies
and Devonshire cream and brown sugar, there was no more laughing,
for then Barty's talent soared to real genius--and genius is a
serious thing. And as to his celery and Stilton cheese--But there!
it's lunch-time, and I'm beginning to feel a little puckish
myself....

Every morning when it was fine Barty and his aunt would take an
airing round the town, which was enclosed by a ditch where there was
good skating in the winter, on long skates that went very fast, but
couldn't cut figures, 8 or 3!

There were no fortifications or ramparts left. But a few of the
magnificent old brick gateways still remained, admitting you to the
most wonderful old streets with tall pointed houses--clean little
slums, where women sat on their door-steps making the most beautiful
lace in the world--odd nooks and corners and narrow ways where it
was easy to lose one's self, small as the town really was;
innumerable little toy bridges over toy canals one could have leaped
at a bound, overlooked by quaint, irregular little dwellings, of
colors that had once been as those of the rainbow, but which time
had mellowed into divine harmonies, as it does all it touches--from
grand old masters to oak palings round English parks; from Venice to
Mechelen and its lace; from a disappointed