“Not after such a dinner as we had tonight,” remarked Frau Schultz, in German, with strident irritability. “The food is getting dreadful--and the wine! It is not good for the health. My stomach--” “You should drink water, as Miss Graves and I do,” said Mrs. Stapleton. “Ah, you American and English women can drink water. We are not accustomed to it. In my home I never drank wine that cost less than four marks a bottle. I am not used to this. I shall complain to Mme. Boccard.” “It is bad,” said Mme. Popea, “but it isn't as bad as it might be. At the Pension Schmidt we couldn't drink it without sugar.” She was a plump little woman, with a predisposition to cheerfulness. Besides, as she owed Mme. Boccard some two months' board and lodging, she could afford a little magnanimity. But Frau Schultz, who was conscious of scrupulous payment up to date, had no such delicacy of feeling. She pursued the subject from her own standpoint, that of her own physiological peculiarities. By the time her tirade was ended, she had worked herself up into a fit state to give battle to Mme. Boccard, on which errand she incontinently proceeded. “What a dreadful woman!” said Mrs. Stapleton, as the door slammed behind her. “Ah, yes. Those Germans,” said Mme. Popea, “they are always so unrefined. They think of nothing but eating and drinking. Herr Schleiermacher came to see me this afternoon. He has been to Hanover to see his _fiancée_, whom he can't marry. He was telling me about it. 'Ach!' he said, 'the last evening it was so grievous. She did hang round my neck for dree hours, so that I could not go out to drink beer with my vriendts!' Animal! All men are bad. But I think German men--ugh!” She gave her shoulders' an expressive shrug, and resumed her reading of an old copy of _Le Journal Amusant_, which she had brought down from her room. “Where are the others?” asked Felicia, dropping her book wearily on to her lap. It was a much-thumbed French translation of “The Chaplet of Pearls,” which Mme. Boccard had procured for her from the circulating library in the Rue du Rhone. Felicia found it languid reading. “Miss Bunter is tending her canary, which is moulting, or else she is writing to her _fiance_ in Burmah,” replied Mrs. Stapleton. “Is she _engaged_?” Miss Bunter was some seven and thirty, thin and faded, the last person in the world, according to Felicia's ideas, to have a lover. Both ladies laughed at her astonishment. “Yes. Hasn't she told you?” cried Mme. Popea. “She tells everyone--in confidence. They have been engaged for fifteen years. And they write each other letters--such fat packages--thick as that--every mail. Ah, _mon Dieu!_ If a man treated me in that way--kept me waiting, waiting--” She threw up her plump little hands with a half-threatening gesture. “What would you have done?” asked Mrs. Stapleton.