Well, I am happy in my shelter.
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.