that I too must belong to the serried ranks of the femmes incomprises,
"why you think I shall be dull. The garden is always beautiful, and I am
nearly always in the mood to enjoy it. Not quite always, I must confess,
for when those Schmidts were here" (their name was not Schmidt, but what
does that matter?) "I grew almost to hate it. Whenever I went into it
there they were, dragging themselves about with faces full of indignant
resignation. Do you suppose they saw one of those blue hepaticas
overflowing the shrubberies? And when I drove with them into the woods,
where the fairies were so busy just then hanging the branches with
little green jewels, they talked about Berlin the whole time, and the
good savouries their new chef makes."

"Well, my dear, no doubt they missed their savouries. Your garden, I
acknowledge, is growing very pretty, but your cook is bad. Poor Schmidt
sometimes looked quite ill at dinner, and the beauty of your floral
arrangements in no way made up for the inferior quality of the food.
Send her away."

"Send her away? Be thankful you have her. A bad cook is more effectual a
great deal than Kissingen and Carlsbad and Homburg rolled into one, and
very much cheaper. As long as I have her, my dear man, you will be
comparatively thin and amiable. Poor Schmidt, as you call him, eats too
much of those delectable savouries, and then looks at his wife and
wonders why he married her. Don't let me catch you doing that."

"I do not think it is very likely," said the Man of Wrath; but whether
he meant it prettily, or whether he was merely thinking of the
improbability of his ever eating too much of the local savouries, I
cannot tell. I object, however, to discussing cooks in the garden on a
starlight night, so I got off his knee and proposed that we should