The Count apologized deeply for the cups and saucers which he was setting out upon the grass on a white cloth. He had none of his own things; he deplored the absence of a samovar. He found some difficulty in keeping alight the alcohol lamp under his tea-kettle, until Jim suggested moving the apparatus into the lee of a big rock on the crest of the hill. There it burned merrily, and the water boiled very soon. The Count spread out any number of thin sandwiches—caviar and pimento, and all sorts of exotic varieties which surely had not been made from any materials Quimpaug could furnish.
Jim, who had been silent for some time, looked up quickly and said:
"Eta prevaskodny chai."
"Oh, er—vyerny," murmured the Count. "How delightful that you speak my language, Monsieur; but I shall be so much happier to speak Anglish with you. I can never have too much time to perfect my Anglish!" He turned hastily to Jean and went on with a broken-off conversation about Rimsky Korsakow and Russian music.
After tea, at the urgent request of two of his guests, he took out his flute.
"I shall play that delicious suite," he said,
