“Do you think,” cried Yvonne, scornfully, “that I would ever buy such cheese _pour ces dames_? Never. Never. _Jamais de ma vie._” Her sausage finger wagged before her nose, and she minced in a dreadful imitation of Mother’s French, “We have none of us large appetites, Yvonne. We are very fond of boiled eggs and mashed potatoes and a nice, plain salad. Ah-Bah!” With a snort of contempt she flung away her shawl, rolled up her sleeves, and began unpacking the basket. At the bottom there was a flat bottle which, sighing, she laid aside. “De quoi pour mes cors,” said she. And Marie, seizing a bottle of Sauterne and bearing it off to the dining-room murmured, as she shut the kitchen door behind her, “Et voilà pour les cors de Monsieur!” The dining-room was a large room panelled in dark wood. It had a massive mantelpiece and carved chairs covered in crimson damask. On the heavy, polished table stood an oval glass dish decorated with little gilt swags. This dish, which it was Marie’s duty to keep filled with fresh flowers, fascinated her. The sight of it gave her a _frisson_. It reminded her always, as it lay solitary on the dark expanse, of a little tomb. And one day, passing through the long windows on to the stone terrace and down the steps into the garden she had the happy thought of so arranging the flowers that they would be appropriate to one of the ladies on a future tragic occasion. Her first creation had been terrible. _Tomb of Mademoiselle Anderson_ in black pansies, lily-of-the-valley, and a frill of heliotrope. It gave her a most intense, curious pleasure to hand Miss Anderson the potatoes at lunch, and at the same time to gaze beyond her at her triumph. It was like (_O ciel!_), it was like handing potatoes to a corpse. The _Tomb of Madame_ was on the contrary almost gay. Foolish little flowers, half yellow, half blue, hung over the edge, wisps of green trailed across, and in the middle there was a large scarlet rose. _Cœur saignant_, Marie had called it. But it did not look in the least like a _cœur saignant_. It looked flushed and cheerful, like Mother emerging from the luxury of a warm bath. Milly’s, of course, was all white. White stocks, little white rose-buds, with a sprig or two of dark box edging. It was Mother’s favorite. Poor innocent! Marie, at the sideboard, had to turn her back when she heard Mother exclaim, “Isn’t it pretty, Milly? Isn’t it sweetly pretty? Most artistic. So original.” And she had said to Marie, “C’est très joli, Marie. Très original.” Marie’s smile was so remarkable that Milly, peeling a tangerine, remarked to Mother, “I don’t think she likes you to admire them. It makes her uncomfortable.”