She pulled the curtains close, and, insisting upon my remaining among my cushions, piled the grate with coal half-way up the chimney.

Would I like some eucalyptus?
"My dear Madame Brandt," I cried, "my bronchial tubes and lungs are as strong as a hippopotamus's." I wish every one would not conclude that I was going off in a rapid decline.
Lola Brandt prowled about me in a wistful, mothering way, showing me a fresh side of her nature.

She is as domesticated as Penelope.
"You're fond of cooking, aren't you ?" I asked suddenly.
She laughed.

"I adore it.

How do you know ?" "I guessed," said I.
"I'm what the French call a _vraie bourgeoise_." "I'm glad to hear it," said I.
"Are you?
I thought your class hated the _bourgeoisie_." "The _bourgeoisie_," I said, "is the nation's granary of the virtues.
But for God's sake, don't tell any one that I said so!" "Why ?" she asked.
"If it found its way into print it would ruin my reputation for epigram." She drew a step or two towards me in her slow rhythmic way, and smiled.
"When you say or do a beautiful thing you always try to bite off its tail." Then she turned and drew some needlework--plain sewing I believe they call it--from beneath the Union Jack cushion and sat down.
"I'll make a confession," she said.