Herbert caught up his sketch-book and ... transferred her dear old head ... to paper 184 Lemois crossed the room and began searching through the old fifteenth-century triptych 240 "Just think, monsieur, what _does_ go on below Coco in the season" 308 First, of course, came the mayor--his worthy spouse on his left 350 THE ARM-CHAIR AT THE INN THE ARM-CHAIR AT THE INN I THE MARMOUSET "How many did you say?" inquired Lemois, our landlord. "Five for dinner, and perhaps one more. I will know when the train gets in. Have the fires started in the bedrooms and please tell Mignon and old Leà to put on their white caps." We were in the Marmouset at the moment--the most enchanting of all the rooms in this most enchanting of all Normandy inns. Lemois was busying himself about the table, selecting his best linen and china--an old Venetian altar cloth and some Nancy ware--replacing the candles in the hanging chandelier, and sorting the silver and glass. Every one of my expected guests was personally known to him; some of them for years. All had shared his hospitality, and each and every one appreciated its rare value. Nothing was too good for them, and nothing should be left undone which would add to their comfort. I had just helped him light the first blaze in the big baronial fireplace, an occupation I revel in, for to me the kindling of a fire is the gathering of half a dozen friends together, each log nudging his neighbor, the cheer of good comradeship warming them all. And a roaring fire it was when I had piled high the logs, swept the hearth, and made it ready for the choice spirits who were to share it with me. For years we have had our outings--or rather our "in-tings" before it--red-letter days for us in which the swish of a petticoat is never heard, and we are free to enjoy a "man's time" together; red-letter days, too, in the calendar of the Inn, when even Lemois, tired out with the whirl of the season, takes on a new lease of life. His annual rejuvenation began at dawn to-day, when he disappeared in the direction of the market and returned an hour later with his procession of baskets filled with fish and lobsters fresh out of the sea a mile away (caught at daylight), some capons, a string of pigeons, and an armful of vegetables snatched in the nick of time from the early grave of an impending frost. As for the more important items, the Chablis Moutonne and Roumanée Conti--rare Burgundies--they were still asleep in their cobwebs on a low Spanish bench that had once served as a temporary resting-place outside a cardinal's door.