One of the delights of dressing by our open windows at this season is to catch the aroma of Mignon's roasting coffee. This morning it is particularly delicious. The dry smell of the soil that gave it birth is fast merging into that marvellous perfume which makes it immortal. The psychological moment is arriving; in common parlance it is just on the "burn"--another turn and the fire will have its revenge. But Mignon's vigil has never ceased--into the air it goes, the soft breeze catching and cooling it, and then there pours out, flooding the garden, the flowers, and the roofs, its new aroma and with it its new life. And the memories it calls up--this pungent, fragrant, spicy perfume: memories of the cup I drank in that old posada outside the gate of Valencia and the girl who served it, and the matador who stood by the window and scowled; memories of my own toy copper coffee-pot, with its tiny blue cup and saucer which Luigi, my gondolier, brings and pours himself; memories of the thimblefuls in shallow china cups hardly bigger than an acorn shell, that Yusef, my dragoman, laid beside my easel in the patio of the Pigeon Mosque in Stamboul, when the priests forbade me to paint. [Illustration: Flooding the garden, the flowers, and the roofs] Yes!--a wonderful aroma this which our pretty, joyous Mignon is scattering broadcast over the court-yard, hastening every man's toilette that he may get down the earlier where Leà is waiting for him with the big cups, the crescents, the pats of freshly churned butter, and the pitcher of milk boiling-hot from Pierre's fire. Another of the pleasures of the open window is being able to hear what goes on in the court-yard. To-day the ever-spontaneous and delightful Louis, as usual, is monopolizing all the talk, with Lemois and Mignon for audience, he having insisted on the open garden for his early cup, which the good Leà has brought, her scuffling sabots marking a track across the well-raked gravel. The conversation is at long range--Louis sitting immediately under my window and Lemois, within reach of the kitchen door at the other side of the court, busying himself with his larder spread out on a table. "Monsieur Lemois! Oh, Monsieur Lemois!" Louis called; "will you be good enough to pay attention! What about eggs?--can I have a couple of soft-boiled?" "Why, of course you can have eggs! Leà, tell Pierre to----" "Yes, I know, but will it endanger the life of the chickens inside? After your sermon last night, and Herbert's penguin yarn, I don't intend that any living thing shall suffer because of my appetite--not if I can help it."