That did not, however, seem likely. There he sat at the head of the table, dispensing his simple hospitality as though he had been entertaining crowned heads at a royal banquet. He made no apology for the repast he offered us. It was the best he had to give, and he credited us with too much good taste to wish it better. When he pledged us in the _vin ordinaire_ of the country, poured into the most delicate of Venetian wineglasses, the slender stems of which were encircled by a tiny twist of blue and their bowls dotted with specks of gold, he might have been a prince drinking to his courtiers in a vintage of fabulous value. Those glasses alone were a marvel in themselves, and, mere fragmentary remains as they were of a past glory, told tales of what that glory must have been. I thought, as I balanced mine between my finger and thumb, what an exquisite specimen of workmanship it was, and how I should like to possess it and keep it in my bedroom for my own delectation, to place the first violets of spring in, or the first lilies of summer. It looked so much too fragile and precious to be handled for ordinary purposes. I was thinking thus, when some one spoke to me—the Baron himself, perhaps—and I was startled into letting the wineglass slip from my hand. It struck the table and was shivered into a thousand fragments. I blushed to scarlet. Had the accident happened in the house of an ordinary host, I should have thought little of it, but to Monsieur le Baron, who was so poor! I tried to stammer out an apology, but the words failed on my lips. Mr. Lovett saw my embarrassment, and laughed heartily at it. I had already commenced to find out that his notions were beyond his means, and that he did not sympathise very strongly with any ideas of economy or restriction. Tessie and Ange looked as concerned as I did. The Baron alone continued the conversation as if nothing had occurred. But I could not allow the matter to rest there. ‘Monsieur!’ I said, ‘I am so _very_ sorry. I was only just thinking how beautiful this little glass was, and how much too delicate to hold anything except spring flowers.’ ‘Then I am sorry also, mademoiselle! But was that the only one of the pattern you admire? Cannot we find another that will do as well to hold your blossoms?’ I remonstrated with this proposal, although he made Denise bring the remainder of her stock of glasses and spread them out upon the table before us. There they sparkled in their prismatic hues of blue and red and gold, and their elegant fragile shapes and twisted stems. But I refused to do more than look at them. I was too clumsy, I averred, to be the possessor of such delicate things. One such injury to art, as I had done that day, was enough for me!