carefully avoided luncheon in order to give my appetite a chance. We
sat down to a huge bowl of cold, greasy soup, in which enormous lumps of
meat swam, as though for their life, awaiting rescue at the prongs of a
fork. In addition to this epicurean dish was a teeming plate of
water-soaked potatoes, delicately boiled. That was all. Letitia said
that it was Swedish, and the most annoying part of the entertainment was
that I was alone in my critical disapprobation. Letitia was so engrossed
with a little Swedish conversation book that she brought to table that
she forgot the mere material question of food--forgot everything but the
horrible jargon she was studying, and the soiled, wisp-like maiden, who
looked more unlike a clean slate than ever.

"What shall I say to her, Archie?" asked Letitia, turning over the pages
of her book, as I tried to rescue a block of meat from the cold fat in
which it lurked. "Here is a chapter on dinner. 'I am very hungry,' '_Jag
är myckel hungrig_.' Rather pretty, isn't it? Hark at this: '_Kypare gif
mig matsedeln och vinlistan._' That means: 'Waiter, give me the bill of
fare, and the list of wines.'"

"Don't," I cried; "don't. This woman doesn't know what dining means.
Look out a chapter on feeding."

Letitia was perfectly unruffled. She paid no attention to me whatsoever.
She was fascinated with the slovenly girl, who stood around and gaped at
her Swedish.

"Gerda," said Letitia, with her eyes on the book, "_Gif mir apven senap
och nägra potäter_." And then, as Miss Lyberg dived for the drowned
potatoes, Letitia exclaimed in an ecstasy of joy, "She understands,
Archie, she understands. I feel I am going to be a great success. _Jag