A very delicious little dinner, judiciously ordered out of _her_
remembrance, not _mine_ (and served in the most exquisite little
dining-room in all Paris--the Princesse de Chevagne's): "huitres
d'Ostende," let us say, and "soupe a la bonne femme," with a "perdrix
aux choux" to follow, and pancakes, and "fromage de Brie;" and to drink,
a bottle of "Romane Conti;" without even the bother of waiters to change
the dishes; a wish, a moment's shutting of the eyes--_augenblick_! and
it was done--and then we could wait on each other.

After my prison fare, and with nothing but tenpenny London dinners to
recollect in the immediate past, I trust I shall not be thought a gross
materialist for appreciating these small banquets, and in such company.
(The only dinner I could recall which was not a tenpenny one, except the
old dinners of my childhood, was that famous dinner at Cray, where I had
discovered that the Duchess of Towers was Mimsey Seraskier, and I did
not eat much of _that_.)

Then a cigarette and a cup of coffee, and a glass of curacoa; and after,
to reach our private box we had but to cross the room and lift
a curtain.

And there before us was the theatre or opera-house brilliantly lighted,
and the instruments tuning up, and the splendid company pouring in:
crowned heads, famous beauties, world-renowned warriors and statesmen,
Garibaldi, Gortschakoff, Cavour, Bismarck, and Moltke, now so famous,
and who not? Mary would point them out to me. And in the next box Dr.
Seraskier and his tall daughter, who seemed friends with all that
brilliant crowd.