about, of ragged bouilli (the meat used in the boiling of this insipid liquid), a tasteless dish of sorrel and of stewed prunes that will be served no less than four or five times successively until the very last of the dish has been consumed, or a dish of rice which will also in its half-finished condition make its successive appearance until the last grain has vanished, and the dish, presumably on the score of economy, on which these luxuries are served will not even be changed. In the same quaint spirit the remains of cold vegetables are reheated and served again, with such result for eye and palate as no pen can describe. Whatever you find at her table you may know beforehand will be of the worst and cheapest of its kind, and there will be as little as possible of it. When fruit outside, in the markets, along the streets in barrows, in the shops, is plentiful, excellent, and absurdly cheap, she will assure you it is far too expensive for her table, and treat three art students, each paying, exclusive of extras, ten pounds a month, to musty biscuits and dried figs that taste like caked saw-*dust. As for sweet dishes, creams, sauces, varieties of well-cooked vegetables, all the thousand little kickshaws we associate with the dainty French term cuisine, these you are as likely to find at her table as ice-cream or champagne.
The home life of the little bourgeoise is a
