The colonel listened with an air of joyous admiration. "Bessie," said he, "this is inspiration. _I_ don't want to see their old town; and I shall ask nothing better than to spend the day with you here at our own fireside. You can sew, and I--I'll _read_ to you, Bessie!" This was a little too gross; even Mrs. Kenton laughed at this, the act of reading being so abhorrent to Colonel Kenton's active temperament that he was notorious for his avoidance of all literature except newspapers. In about ten minutes, passed in an agreeable idealization of his purpose, which came in that time to include the perusal of all the books on Italy he had picked up on their journey, the colonel said he would go down and ask the portier if they had the New York papers. When he returned, somewhat disconsolate, to say they had not, and had apparently never heard of the Herald or Tribune, his wife smiled subtly: "Then I suppose you'll have to go to the consul's for them." "Why, Bessie, it isn't a thing I should have suggested; I can't bear the thoughts of leaving you here alone; but as you _say_! No, I'll tell you: I'll not go for the New York papers, but I will just step round and call upon the representative of the country--pay my respects to him, you know--if you _wish_ it. But I'd far rather spend the time here with you, Bessie, in our cosy little boudoir; I would, indeed." Mrs. Kenton now laughed outright, and--it was a tremendous sarcasm for her--asked him if he were not afraid the example of the Black Forest was becoming infectious. "Oh, come now, Bessie; no joking," pleaded the colonel, in mock distress. "I'll tell you what, my dear, the head waiter here speaks English like a--an Ollendorff; and if you get to feeling a little lonesome while I'm out, you can just ring and order something from him, you know. It will cheer you up to hear the sound of your native tongue in a foreign land. But, pshaw! _I_ sha'nt be gone a minute!" By this time the colonel had got on his overcoat and gloves, and had his hat in one hand, and was leaning over his wife, resting the other hand on the back of the chair in which she sat warming the toes of her slippers at the draft of the stove. She popped him a cheery little kiss on his mustache, and gave him a small push: "Stay as long as you like, Ned. I shall not be in the least lonesome. I shall do my mending, and then I shall take a nap, and by that time it will be dinner. You needn't come back before dinner. What hour is the table d'hote?" "Oh!" cried the colonel guiltily. "The fact is, I wasn't going to tell you, I thought it would vex you so much: there _is_ no table d'hote here and never was. Bradshaw has been depraved by the moral atmosphere of Germany. I'd as soon trust Baedeker after this." "Well, never mind," said Mrs. Kenton. "We can tell them to bring us what they like for dinner, and we can have it whenever _we_ like."