principal stock-in-trade of every florist in the universe.

We could not catch even a glimpse of the supper-rooms, but we saw a
man in the fourth story front room filling dozens of little glass
vases, each with its single malmaison, rose, or camellia, and
despatching them by an assistant to another part of the house; so we
could imagine from this the scheme of decoration at the tables.--No,
not new, perhaps, but simple and effective.

By the time we had finished our entree, which happened to be lamb
cutlets and green peas, and had begun our roast, which was chicken
and ham, I remember, they had put wreaths at all the windows, hung
Japanese lanterns on the balcony and in the oak-tree, and
transformed the house into a blossoming bower.

At this exciting juncture Dawson entered unexpectedly with our
sweet, and for the first and only time caught us literally 'red-
handed.' Let British subjects be interested in their neighbours, if
they will (and when they refrain I am convinced that it is as much
indifference as good breeding), but let us never bring our country
into disrepute with an English butler! As there was not a single
person at the table when Dawson came in, we were obliged to say that
we had finished dinner, thank you, and would take coffee; no sweet
to-night, thank you.

Willie Beresford was the only one who minded, but he rather likes
cherry tart. It simply chanced to be cherry tart, for our cook at
Smith's Private Hotel is a person of unbridled fancy and endless
repertory. She sometimes, for example, substitutes rhubarb for
cherry tart quite out of her own head; and when balked of both these