derful filberts glazed with sugar; biscuits and all manner of queer Russian sweets. I leant back with wide eyes.
"Feodor sends us these," said the old woman, bringing a dish of Cornish cream and a home-made loaf to give the feast a basis.
"Who's Feodor?"
"Feodor Himkoff." She paused a moment, and added, "He's mate on a Russian vessel."
"A friend?"
The question went unnoticed. "Is there any you fancy?" she asked. "Some o't may be outlandish eatin'."
"Do you like these things?" I looked from her to the caviare.
"I don't know. I never tried. We keeps 'em, my man an' I, for all poor come-by-chance folks that knocks."
"But these are dainties for rich men's tables."
"May be. I've never tasted—they'd stick in our ozels if we tried."
I wanted to ask a dozen questions, but thought it politer to accept this strange hospitality in silence. Glancing up presently,
