We strolled up to St. Martin's Church, said to be the oldest church in England, and wandered around the churchyard, filled with glorious roses creeping everywhere over tombs so old that the lettering is illegible. When the sun set, we had the most beautiful view of Canterbury to be had anywhere, and one of the most beautiful in all England. We sat down to a cold supper that night in a charming little inn with diamond-paned windows. But as Jimmie loves Paris cooking and would almost barter his chances of heaven for a smoking dish of _sole a la Normande_ at the Cafe Marguery, he cast looks of deep aversion at a side table loaded with all sorts of cold and jellied meats. His choice of evils finally fell upon chicken, and to the purple-faced waiter with blue-white eyes, who asked what part of the fowl he would prefer, Jimmie said: "The second joint." The waiter frowned and went away. Presently he came back and asked Jimmie over again, and again Jimmie said, "The second joint." He went away and came back with a fine cut of beef. "What's this?" said Jimmie. "I ordered chicken." "Yes, sir!" said the waiter, mopping his brow, "What part would you like, sir?" "The second joint," said Jimmie, with ominous distinctness. "That is if English chickens _grow_ any." "Yes, sir, yes, sir," said the poor waiter. He hurried away, and finally brought up the head waiter. "What part of the fowl would you like, sir? This man did not understand your order." Jimmie leaned back in his chair, and looked up at the waiters without speaking. "How many parts are there to a chicken?" said Jimmie. "As your man does not seem to speak English, you name them over, and when you come to the one I want, I'll scream." Both waiters shifted their weight to the other foot and looked embarrassed. "I want the knee of the chicken," said Jimmie. "From the knee-cap to the thigh. That part which supports the fowl when it walks. Not the breast nor the neck nor the back nor yet the ankle, but the upper, the superior part of the leg. Do you understand?" "The upper part of the leg? I beg pardon, sir, but the waiter understood that you wanted a cut from the second joint on that table, sir." Jimmie simply looked at him. "The English speak a dialect somewhat resembling the American language, Jimmie," I said, soothingly. A knock at the door, and Bee appeared. "Should Wives Work?" she said. "Answer that offhand! There is a reporter down-stairs for the _Sunday Gorgon_, who wants five hundred words from you which he is prepared to take down in shorthand. Should Wives Work?" "Should wives work?" I cried, ferociously. "Would they if they got a chance? Oh, Bee, for heaven's sake, go down and tell him I'm out. Please, Bee." "No, just give me a few ideas, and I'll go down and enlarge on them, and make up your five hundred words. Your opinion is so valuable. You don't know a single thing about it!" I got rid of her by some diplomacy, and returned to the Jimmies.