If somebody had dramatized Gerda Lyberg's initial dinner, it would probably have been considered exceedingly droll. As a serious episode, however, its humor, to my mind, lacked spontaneity. Letitia had asked her to cook us a little Swedish meal, so that we could get some idea of Stockholm life, in which, for some reason or other, we were supposed to be deeply interested. Unfortunately I was extremely hungry, and had carefully avoided luncheon in order to give my appetite a chance. We sat down to a huge bowl of cold greasy soup, in which enormous lumps of meat swam, as though, for their life, awaiting rescue at the prongs of a fork. In addition to this epicurean dish was a teeming plate of water-soaked potatoes, delicately boiled. That was all. Letitia said that it was Swedish, and the most annoying part of the entertainment was that I was alone in my critical disapprobation. Letitia was so engrossed with a little Swedish conversation book that she brought to table that she forgot the mere material question of food--forgot everything but the horrible jargon she was studying, and the soiled, wisp-like maiden, who looked more unlike a clean slate than ever. "What shall I say to her, Archie?" asked Letitia, turning over the pages of her book, as I tried to rescue a block of meat from the cold fat in which it lurked. "Here is a chapter on dinner. 'I am very hungry,' '_Jag är myckel hungrig._' Rather pretty, isn't it? Hark at this: '_Kypare gif mig matsedeln och vinlistan._' That means: 'Waiter, give me the bill of fare, and the list of wines.'" "Don't," I cried; "don't. This woman doesn't know what dining means. Look out a chapter on feeding--or filling up." Letitia was perfectly unruffled. She paid no attention to me whatsoever. She was fascinated with the slovenly girl, who stood around and gaped at her Swedish. "Gerda," said Letitia, with her eyes on the book, "_Gif mir apven senap och nägra potäter_." And then, as Miss Lyberg dived for the drowned potatoes, Letitia exclaimed in an ecstasy of joy, "She understands, Archie, she understands. I feel I am going to be a great success. _Jag tackar_, Gerda. That means 'I thank you.' _Jag tackar._ See if you can say it, Archie. Just try, dear, to oblige me. _Jag tackar._ Now, that's a good boy, _jag tackar_." "I won't," I declared spitefully. "No _jag tackar_-ing for a parody like this, Letitia. You don't seem to realize that I'm hungry. Honestly, I prefer a delicatessen dinner to this." "'Pray, give me a piece of venison,'" read Letitia, absolutely disregarding my mood. "'_Var god och gif mig ett stycke vildt._' It is almost intelligible, isn't it dear? '_Ni äter icke_': you do not eat." "I can't," I asserted mournfully, anxious to gain Letitia's sympathy.