She is a treasure, that girl; so neat and
dexterous, and not above dabbling in anything on earth she may be
asked to turn her hand to. She walks the world with a needle-case
in one hand and an etna in the other. She can cook an omelette on
occasion, or drive a Norwegian cariole; she can sew, and knit, and
make dresses, and cure a cold, and do anything else on earth you ask
her. Her salads are the most savoury I ever tasted; while as for her
coffee (which she prepares for us in the train on long journeys),
there isn't a chef de cuisine at a West-end club to be named in the
same day with her.
So, when Amelia said, in her imperious way, "Cesarine, we want to go
to the Tyrol--now--at once--in mid-October; where do you advise us
to put up?"--Cesarine answered, like a shot, "The Erzherzog Johann,
of course, at Meran, for the autumn, madame."
"Is he ... an archduke?" Amelia asked, a little staggered at such
apparent familiarity with Imperial personages.
"Ma foi! no, madame. He is an hotel--as you would say in England,
the 'Victoria' or the 'Prince of Wales's'--the most comfortable
hotel in all South Tyrol; and at this time of year, naturally, you
must go beyond the Alps; it begins already to be cold at Innsbruck."
So to Meran we went; and a prettier or more picturesque place, I
confess, I have seldom set eyes on.
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