"Do you always have coffee at this hour?" I inquired.
She tossed back her head and measured me.
"At what hour would you prefer me to have it? I must have my little cup after breakfast."
"Ah, you breakfast at this hour?"
"At mid-day—comme cela se fait. Here they breakfast at a quarter past seven! That quarter past is charming!"
"But you were telling me about your coffee," I observed sympathetically.
"My cousine can't believe in it; she can't understand it. She's an excellent girl; but that little cup of black coffee, with a drop of cognac, served at this hour,—they exceed her comprehension. So I have to break the ice every day, and it takes the coffee the time you see to arrive. And when it arrives, monsieur! If I don't offer you any of it you must not take it ill. It will be because I know you have drunk it on the boulevard."
I resented extremely this scornful treatment of poor Caroline Spencer's humble hospitality; but I said nothing, in order to say nothing uncivil. I only looked on Mr. Mixter, who had clasped his arms round his knees and was watching my companion's demonstrative graces in solemn fascination. She presently saw that I was observing him; she glanced at me with a little bold explanatory smile. "You know, he adores me," she murmured, putting her nose into her tapestry again. I expressed the
