ness and boxes of chocolates for tea, and they vied strenuously with one another in the matter of dining us. It was unfortunate that I could not see my way to accepting the hospitality of one or the other every night. On the nights on which I did not accept it, we all four dined together at places little affected by ladies—the Cock, Stone's and the Cheshire Cheese—for even the wealthy Chelubai, used as he was to the best efforts of the Savoy, the Carlton and the Ritz, did not disdain the honest but unpretentious English food of those hostelries. Bottiger preferred it.
Talking and smoking, we lingered at our table till ten o'clock, and then I brought Angel home, to the pleasantest hour of the day. Sitting on either side of the fire, we talked; and whether she talked of her old life in Cumberland, or of the people in a novel she had read, or listened—and she was an excellent listener—to the wicked wisdom of the world from my experienced lips, that hour never bored me. I began even to resent spending the evening at the theatre when one of the Reviews for which I wrote had sent me tickets that I might write about the play. But her childlike joy in the frequently tedious performances was so great that I had not the heart to deny her the pleasure. And after all, when we came home and ate the well-chosen cakes of Chelubai and Bottiger, we had most of an hour's
