And I've traveled a bit, too." Marie opened the door and smilingly announced that dinner was served.
"My dining-room," Hilda explained, as she led the way, "is the tiniest place you have ever seen." It was a tiny room, hung all round with French prints, above which ran a shelf full of china.

Hilda saw Alexander look up at it.
"It's not particularly rare," she said, "but some of it was my mother's.

Heaven knows how she managed to keep it whole, through all our wanderings, or in what baskets and bundles and theatre trunks it hasn't been stowed away.

We always had our tea out of those blue cups when I was a little girl, sometimes in the queerest lodgings, and sometimes on a trunk at the theatre--queer theatres, for that matter." It was a wonderful little dinner.

There was watercress soup, and sole, and a delightful omelette stuffed with mushrooms and truffles, and two small rare ducklings, and artichokes, and a dry yellow Rhone wine of which Bartley had always been very fond.