t
from each.

Mary's face fell when I accusingly pointed this fact out to her.

"I forgot that I had any, Missis dear," she said, humbly. "I know you
hate to run out of things."

"So I do," I said, severely, "but ten dollars' worth of olive-oil is
rather too much to forget at a time, and there is absolutely no excuse
for your opening all three of them."

"I know it, Missis dear."

I opened my mouth to say more, but her penitence, her humility, the
sight of her old white head, moved me. "Suppose," I said to myself,
"that, in addition to her extravagance, she was as impudent, as brazen,
and as defiant as most servants? What would I do then?"

I turned away grateful for small mercies.

Soon after this, we began to take our meals out-of-doors. I had made a
little lawn near the house, and surrounded it with a wire fencing, over
which sweet peas were climbing. In the centre of this patch of grass
was spread a rug made of green denim, just the colour of the grass, and
on this stood a dinner-table of weathered oak. Here, in fine weather,
we took all our meals. Breakfast was served anywhere from six to ten,
and by looking from your bedroom windows, you might see a man in white
flannels, smoking a cigarette and reading the morning paper over coffee
or rolls or a dish of strawberries on thin green leaves.

The women--until they had once tried the open-air breakfast--always
preferred their coffee in their rooms. But, if I do say it myself,
Peach Orchard at six o'clock in the morning is the most beautiful spot
on earth. (The Angel has just thoughtfully observed that for me that
is a very moderate statement.)

One day while Lady Mary and Sir Wemyss were with us, I made a lobster
salad for them. I always use nasturtium stems in the mayonnaise for a
lobster, and mix the blossoms in for garnishing and to serve it with.

This suggested the colour scheme of yellow, so I decorated entirely
with nasturtiums, and, beginning with grapefruit, I planned a yellow
luncheon throughout.

The Angel had seen me fussing with things in the servants' dining-room,
and knew that I had made a salad. I simply mention this to show why I
continue to call him the Angel, though the honeymoon has waxed and
waned many, many times.

Now I admit that _I_ am forgetful. I admit that _I_ am absent-minded,
and I furthermore beg to state that with the Jimmies and the Beguelins
and Bee tearing subjects for conversation into mental rags and tatt