interest her.

"See, Miss, a sparrow who carries a piece of bread big as a house; is
it then an English sparrow that accomplishes such prodigies?"

Not quite fathoming the drift of Victorine's meditations we suggest
that it is perhaps a Belgian refugee sparrow, at which her amusement
is so intense that she is obliged to leave the room.

Sometimes her fancy takes great flights, for she is very high-minded.
Her weekly bath gives rise to much lofty philosophical reflection, and
she has come to the firm conclusion that it is "mieux que manger."
Also she has great taste, of which she occasionally gives us the
benefit. She laughs scornfully at certain _objets d'art_ and praises
others. Ornaments, if they meet with her approval, are arranged in
rigid lines of continuous beauty, less favoured ones being pushed into
the background, and books are disposed with assumed carelessness in
thoughtful postures. Though it is plain she thinks little of our taste
in general, her disapproval is usually silent. It is therefore with
almost choking pride that we receive her praise, though it is often,
we fear, of a disingenuous nature.

"It is plain that Miss has the eye artistic: that sees itself well in
the new basin she has bought to replace the one that fell by hazard
and burst itself. Monsieur also has the eye straight. In effect the
picture there that Monsieur designs is of a justness, but of a
justness! One would say the place itself," leaning back and half
closing her eyes. "In Belgium could it not be better done. No. It is
I, Victorine, who say it. If Monsieur has the false digestion, by
contrary it is evident that he has the head solid."

But Victorine has a fault dark and grievous in the British eye. She
jibs at fresh air.

"Surely Mr., and above all Miss, will take a congestion with the
window grand-open of that fashion? As for me I have the neuralgias to
make fear! Figure to yourself that in the kitchen the three windows
(where one would well suffice, go) if open make to pass a hurricane!"

A short lecture follows, in which the ill effects of stuffiness are
pointed out, and Victorine is reduced to unconvinced and mutinous
silence. As the days pass a little acquiescence in "cette manie pour
les courants d'air" is visible, but at the slightest approach of cold
every aperture through which air may possibly find its way is
surreptitiously closed, and it is only when she is out with her
husband taking a walk or refreshing the