And here we are sitting at the dinner-table, laid for ten persons. One of the places is empty. It is my little granddaughter’s. She is not quite well today, and is having her dinner in her room with her nurse. A specially hygienic dinner has been prepared for her: beef-tea and sago.
At our big dinner of four courses, with two kinds of wine, served by two footmen, and eaten at a table decorated with flowers, this is the kind of talk that goes on:
“Where do these splendid roses come from?” asks my son.
My wife tells him that a lady, who will not divulge her name, sends them from Petersburg.
“Roses like these cost three shillings each,” says my son, and goes on to relate how at some concert or play such roses were showered on a performer till they covered the stage. The conversation passes on to music, and then to a man who is a very good judge and patron of music.
“By the by, how is he?”
“Oh, he is always ailing. He is again going to Italy. He always spends the winter there, and his health improves wonderfully.”
“But the journey is very trying and tedious.”
“Oh no! Not if one takes the express—it is only thirty-nine hours.”
“All the same, it is very dull.”
“Wait a bit! We shall fly before long!”