I was interrupted in my writing by the entrance of my cook and
housekeeper, Antoinette. She was sorry to disturb me, but did
Monsieur like sorrel? She was preparing some _veau a l'oseille_
for lunch, and Stenson (my man) had informed her that it was
disgusting stuff and that Monsieur would not eat it.

"Antoinette," said I, "go and inform Stenson that as he looks
after my outside so do you look after my inside, and that I have
implicit confidence in both of you in your respective spheres of
action."

"But does Monsieur like sorrel?" Antoinette inquired, anxiously.

"I adore it even," said I, and Antoinette made her exit in
triumph.

What a reverential care French women have for the insides of
their masters! At times it is pathetic. Before now, I have
thrown dainty morsels which I could not eat into the fire, so as
to avoid hurting Antoinette's feelings.

I came across her three years ago in a tiny hostelry in a tiny
town in the Loire district. She cooked the dinner and conversed
about it afterwards so touchingly that we soon became united in
bonds of the closest affection. Suddenly some money was stolen;
Antoinette, accused, was dismissed without notice. I had a
shrewd suspicion of the thief--a suspicion which was afterwards
completely justified--and indignantly championed Antoinette's
cause.