It's not
worth much, but I love it. I've managed to save something every year,
and that with helping my three sisters now and then, and tiding poor
Cousin Mike over bad seasons. He's that gifted, you know, but he will
drink and loses more good engagements than other fellows ever get. And
I've traveled a bit, too."
Marie opened the door and smilingly announced that dinner was served.
"My dining-room," Hilda explained, as she led the way, "is the tiniest
place you have ever seen."
It was a tiny room, hung all round with French prints, above which ran a
shelf full of china. Hilda saw Alexander look up at it.
"It's not particularly rare," she said, "but some of it was my
mother's. Heaven knows how she managed to keep it whole, through all our
wanderings, or in what baskets and bundles and theatre trunks it hasn't
been stowed away. We always had our tea out of those blue cups when I
was a little girl, sometimes in the queerest lodgings, and sometimes on
a trunk at the theatre--queer theatres, for that matter."
It was a wonderful little dinner. There was watercress soup, and sole,
and a delightful omelette stuffed with mushrooms and truffles, and two
small rare ducklings, and artichokes, and a dry yellow Rhone wine of
which Bartley had always been very fond. He drank it appreciatively and
remarked that there was still no other he liked so well.
"I have some champagne for you, too. I don't drink it myself, but I like
to see it behave when it's poured.
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