We sit down to the breakfast table, which has a more than usually festive aspect. A faint aroma of truffles perfumes the air, every one is smiling, and through the glass I see, startling sight! the doorkeeper, with his own hands, wiping the handrail of the staircase. It is a glorious day.
Baby has ranged his elephants, lions, and giraffes round his plate, and his mother, under pretext of a draught, breakfasts in her tippet.
"Have you ordered the carriage, dear, for our visits?" I ask.
"That cushion for Aunt Ursula will take up such a deal of room. It might be put beside the coachman."
"Poor aunt."
"Papa, don't let us go to Aunt Ursula," said Baby; "she pricks so when she kisses you."
"Naughty boy . . . . Think of all we have to get into the carriage. Leon's rocking-horse, Louise's muff, your father's slippers, Ernestine's quilt, the bonbons, the work-box. I declare, aunt's cushion must go under the coachman's feet."
"Papa, why doesn't the giraffe eat cutlets?"
"I really don't know, dear."
"Neither do I, papa."