This year--it was the winter following the Franco-Prussian war--the
preparations were rendered uncommonly impressive by the addition of a
cheese large as the moon at full. There was always plenty of cheese of
various kinds in the house: whole milk cheese carefully aged until its
flavour was like that of English Stilton or Italian Gorgonzola; skim
milk cheese stuffed with cloves and cardamom seeds; and dark brown goat
milk cheese of a cloying sweetness that Keith detested.

Cheese was more than a taste with Keith's father. It was a hobby, and
one of his few pastimes was to skirmish in strange little shops for some
particularly old and strong-smelling piece at a reasonable price. When
he brought home a bargain of that kind, he acted like a bibliophile
having just captured a rare first edition for a song, and the mother
tried hard to share his enthusiasm. But, she said once, she had to draw
the line at cheese that walked by itself. Half in jest and half in
earnest, the father maintained that the maggots were the very essence of
the cheese, and that to remove them was to lose the finest flavour. This
year the father had bought a whole fresh cheese in order to age it at
home and thus save money in two ways, the price being proportionate
to the age.

The same large-handed system prevailed in other things, though the
parents often spoke of their poverty, and though their resources
undoubtedly were very limited. Shirts, table-ware, bed-linen, china,
etc., must needs be acquired in round numbers. To have less than a dozen
of anything was to have nothing at all. The breaking of a cup was a
family disaster if it could not be replaced. Everything had to be in
sets, and to preserve these intact, the utmost care was preached and
exercised. It bred thrift and orderliness, but also an undue regard