at any hour of the day or night.

This brings us to the kitchen-stove, which is a marvel. No massive and
extravagant English ranges here! There is only one kind: we call
it the Coffin and Flower-pot. The coffin--small, black, and highly
polished--projects from the wall about four feet, the further end
being supported by what looks like an ornamental black flower-pot
standing on a pedestal. The coffin is the oven, and the flower-pot is
the stove. Given a handful of small coal or charcoal, Madame appears
capable of keeping it at work all day, and of boiling, baking, or
roasting you innumerable dishes.

Then there is the family. Who or what they all are, and where they all
sleep, is a profound mystery. The family tree is usually headed by a
decrepit and ruminant old gentleman in a species of yachting-cap. He
sits behind the stove--not exactly with one foot in the grave, but
with both knees well up against the coffin--and occasionally offers
a mumbled observation of which no one takes the slightest notice.
Sometimes, too, there is an old, a very old, lady. Probably she is
some one's grandmother, or great-grandmother, but she does not appear
to be related to the old gentleman. At least, they never recognise one
another's existence in any way.

There are also vague people who possess the power of becoming
invisible at will. They fade in and out of the house like wraiths:
their one object in life appears to be to efface themselves as much
as possible. Madame refers to them as "_refugiés_"; this the
sophisticated Mr. Cockerell translates, "German spies."

Next in order come one or two farmhands--usually addressed as "'Nri!"