Emmeline decided upon ices and _petits fours_ in the Corso for her
party, after which they were going to let nothing interfere with their
inspection of the prison of St. Paul; but we came back and ordered a
haricot. In the cavernous recesses beyond the door which opened
kitchen-ward, commands resounded, and a quarter of an hour later a boy
walked casually through the dining-room bearing beans in a basket. Time
went on, and the Senator was compelled to send word that he had not
ordered the repast for the following day. The small waiter then made a
pretence of activity, and brought vinegar and salt, and rolls and water.
"The peutates is notta-cooks," said he in deprecation, and we were
distressed to postpone the Count for those peutates. But what else was
possible?
The dismaying part was that after luncheon had enabled us to regard a
little thing like that with equanimity, my parents abandoned it to me.
Momma said she knew she was missing a great deal, but she really didn't
feel equal to entertaining the Count; her back had given out completely.
The Senator wished to attend to his mail.
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