taking luncheon at a village inn.

We hesitated very much, but we had to see Plougasnou, and our driver,
for reasons of his own, declared that Plougasnou was far more beautiful
than St. Jean du Doigt, whilst its inn was renowned in Brittany. So,
having watched the funeral wind picturesquely down the hill-side, pause
at the beautiful gateway, and disappear into the church, we departed.

It was very charming to drive about the hills and valleys, the narrow
country lanes that were full of the beauty of summer. Finally, a steep
ascent brought us to our destination with a rude awakening. We had left
Paradise for very earthly quarters. There was no beauty about the spot,
which, placed on a hill, was bleak, bare, and exposed. The inn was the
incarnation of ugliness, and everything about it was rough and rude. In
the kitchen two women were at work. The one was brewing coffee, which
sent forth a delicious aroma, the other, with weeping eyes, was peeling
onions for the pot-au-feu.

We were served with a modest luncheon in a room behind the kitchen.
Madame prepared our food, and we had the privilege of assisting at the
ceremony. We were initiated into the mystery of frying an
omelette-au-naturel, the safest thing to order, no matter where you may
be in France, for the humblest cottage knows how to send up its omelette
to perfection. The handmaiden waited upon us, but she was heavy and not
intelligent, and she walked about in wooden shoes that clattered and
echoed and shocked one's nerves. But this did not affect the omelette,
or the modest ragout that concluded the banquet.

We lunched almost al fresco. The window was wide open and looked on to a
large yard, surrounded by outbuildings. Hens raced about, and without