Here, standing before a mirror, she unpinned her straw hat, smoothed her dark hair, resting her eyes pensively for a few moments on her reflected face. Then she sauntered listlessly about the little room in performance of those trivial, aimless offices, entirely feminine, such as opening all the drawers in her clothes-press, smoothing out various frilly objects and fabrics, investigating a little gilded box and thoughtfully inspecting its contents, which consisted of hair-pins. Fussing here, lingering there, loitering by her bird-cage, where a canary cheeped its greeting and hopped and hopped; bending over a cluster of white phlox in a glass of water to inhale the old-fashioned perfume, she finally tied on a fresh apron and walked slowly out to the ancient, vaulted kitchen. An old peasant woman was cooking, while a young one washed dishes. "Are the American gentlemen still at table, Julie?" she inquired. "Mademoiselle Maryette, they are devouring everything in the house!" exclaimed old Julie, flinging both hands toward heaven. "_Tenez_, mamzelle, I have heard of eating in ancient days, I have read of Gargantua, I have been told of banquets, of feasting, of appetites! But there is one American in there! Mamzelle Maryette, if I should swear to you that he is on his third chicken and that a row of six pint bottles of ’93 Margaux stand empty on the cloth at his elbow, I should do no penance for untruthfulness. _Tenez, Mamzelle Maryette, regardez un peu par l’oubliette_--" And old Julie slid open the wooden shutter on the crack and Maryette bent forward and surveyed the dining room outside. They were laughing very loud in there, these three Americans--three powerful, sun-scorched young men, very much at their ease around the table, draining the red Bordeaux by goblets, plying knife and fork with joyous and undiminished vigour. The tall one with the crisp hair and clear, grayish eyes--he of the three chickens--was already achieving the third--a crisply browned bird, fresh from the spit, fragrant and smoking hot. At intervals he buttered great slices of rye bread, or disposed of an entire young potato, washing it down with a goblet of red wine, but always he returned to the rich roasted fowl which he held, still impaled upon its spit, and which he carved as he ate, wings, legs, breast falling in steaming flakes under his skillful knife blade. Sticky Smith finally pushed aside his drained glass and surveyed an empty plate frankly and regretfully, unable to continue. He said: "I’m going to bed and I’m going to sleep twenty-four hours. After that I’m going to eat for twenty-four more hours, and then I’ll be in good shape. Bong soir." "Aw, stick around with the push!" remonstrated Kid Glenn thickly, impaling another potato upon his fork and gesticulating with it. Smith gazed with surfeited but hopeless envy upon Burley’s magnificent work with knife and fork, saw him crack a seventh bottle of Bordeaux, watched him empty the first goblet.