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Why had I come out on such a dreadful day? It was
indeed a detestable day of raw fog. 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.


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