"It is only to spick about my café," she said to Miss Spencer, with her agreeable smile. "I should like it served in the garden under the leetle tree."
The young man behind her had now stepped into the room, and he also stood looking at me. He was a pretty-faced little fellow, with an air of provincial foppishness,—a tiny Adonis of Grimwinter. He had a small pointed nose, a small pointed chin, and, as I observed, the most diminutive feet. He looked at me foolishly, with his mouth open.
"You shall have your coffee," said Miss Spencer, who had a faint red spot in each of her cheeks.
"It is well!" said the lady in the dressing-gown. "Find your bouk," she added, turning to the young man.
He gazed vaguely round the room. "My grammar, d 'ye mean?" he asked, with a helpless intonation.
But the large lady was inspecting me, curiously, and gathering in her dressing-gown with her white arm.
"Find your bouk, my friend," she repeated.
"My poetry, d 'ye mean?" said the young man, also staring at me again.
"Never mind your bouk," said his companion. "To-day we will talk. We will make some conversation. But we must not interrupt. Come;" and she turned away. "Under the leetle tree," she added, for the benefit of Miss Spencer.
Then she gave me a sort of salutation, and a
