15

CHAPTER I.

POOR DEVILS!

'I CANNOT bear the way they live on the Continent. Messes, I call them.'

This observation was provoked by the broad stretches of colouring vine that broke upon us as we sped through the rocky way of the railroad, between Bern and Ouchy. The hater of messes had been moved by the grapes to observe that he was of opinion that a Kentish hop-ground was more picturesque than a vineyard. They were a good British couple.

We were travelling through the vineyards of La Côte, along the Jorat range between the Alps and the Jura, and the sweet waters of the lake were lapping the roots of the vines, and casting diamond spray upon the ripening fruit. It was a rare day along the banks of the Leman. Not a film between us and the Alps, that stretched in white and purple glory into the deep blue of the sky. Lateen sails swept like snowy wings upon the water, and a gay packet was puffing out of Evian opposite, making for our side. In the vineyards, men and women, swarthy with the fierce heat, were at work, giving

a last, loving attention to the grape, over which the leaves were reddening fast. Many a traveller remembers that all the beauty of Lake Leman, where the vines creep to its liquid fringe, almost from Geneva to the Castle of Chillon, bursts upon the sight on issuing from a tunnel.

'Nor I. They wouldn't do for us. I don't say I cann't eat them for a week or two when I'm travelling, but live on them, ugh!' The lady shivered expressively, as though some horrible proposition in the way of cannibalism or a trainoil régime had been submitted to her.

The gentleman, being hugely satisfied with the emphatic verdict in his favour, grasped a bunch of alpenstocks he had held, beefeater fashion, all the way from the Federal capital, and leaned forward to substantiate his position.

'Mary cann't bear them either, nor Anne-I mean our Anne.'

'Our Anne would be sure not to like them,' the lady observed with quiet firmness; indicating hereby that none of her race could possibly derogate from the dignity of the family by liking the messes of the Continent, or even tolerating them, while one of the Dothems, the butchers of Chalkstone, who had served generations of Anne's kindred, lived to cut a mutton-chop, or trim the Sunday leg of mutton.

'You deal with Cheathem now, don't you?' The idea!' the lady exclaimed. Really, Reginald, you ought to know that nothing would

ever induce us, nothing-after over forty years! Why, the Dothems must have had thousands out of our family. But you know that as well as I do.'

'Of course,' Reginald said, apologetically, glancing round the carriage to see whether his fellow-passengers were fully impressed with the dignity of a family that had dealt with the same butcher for over forty years.

'You like omelettes, though?' Reginald inquired, in the manner of a man who, in the generosity of his heart, was trying to insinuate an extenuating circumstance in mitigation of sentence upon an unfortunate culprit. 'Yes, you like omelettes, of course.'

The lady was not to be cajoled. She was a person of firm convictions, which had been instilled into her, just as they had been instilled into her mother and grandmother before her. They were as much part of her as her back hair -possibly, more so. They were part of the eminent gentility of Chalkstone, and no more to be rooted out of a member of one of the genteel families of that eye of the universe than the corner-stone of the parish church was to be dislodged by a toothpick.

"Omelettes! I don't think there can be any very strong objection to them.' The pale-blue grave eyes of the speaker wandered quietly over the vineyards, the lake, and the mountains, while she gave the subject her deepest consideration. 'But John always says he doesn't see "the pull"

с

(as he calls it) they have over English fried eggs, after all. Omelette, too, is very difficult to digest.'

There you are right.' Reginald caught at the objection, and, while he described an imaginary pattern upon the carpet with the point of an alpenstock, continued: John sees straight through things. Still, they can do an omelette in a way that we can't touch.'

6

'Perhaps it's as well we can't, for the waste of butter is positively wicked. Our next station is Lausanne, I think?'

Reginald sought his guide-book, and compared it with the name of the little vine and flower-covered station at which we were drawing up. Satisfied with the correctness of his book, the punctuality of the train, and with the record of the exact number of miles yet to be traversed, he turned his back on lake, mountains, and vineyards, and searched his mind for another diverting topic, appearing to have an idea that he would find it in the empty lamp-socket in the roof of the carriage.

'You don't see much good fruit on the Continent,' was the bright result of his exploration. 'Indeed, I call their fruit flavourless. And Boltt is quite of my opinion.'

'John is a judge,' said the lady, naturally, the gentleman being, as it subsequently appeared, her husband. 'He rather likes their melons.'

'Bless me!' responded Reginald; he never told me that. But, of course, you know. As to

melons, they can't help their being fine; they grow in the fields like swedes, or mangold. You see them lying in heaps upon the pavements. I bought one for two sous at Lyons, and took it up to my room at the hotel, and we ate it all to ourselves.'

You greedy creatures!' was the playful re-. buke to the beaming Reginald, who was quite of the opinion that he had said something uncommonly witty, and presented himself to the company in the light of a supremely knowing

one.

With a little brandy from my flask, and part of a roll which Anne-my Anne, I mean-had saved from the breakfast, we made quite a cosy lunch, for two sous-a penny!'

At

'I am afraid not a very wholesome one. what time do you lunch now? Since we've moved into our new house (you know John has bought it outright?), and we are nearer John's office, we lunch every day at half-past twelve, as the clock strikes.'

Reginald was strongly interested, and, by a series of questions, elicited from the lady the further information that John still liked Cheshire cheese as much as ever, and was very cross one day when North Wiltshire was put upon the table; that it was very difficult to get exactly the black crust John liked from the baker; that cheese remained at about the same price at Chalkstone; and that John's eldest boy-being a lad of extra