"You are ashamed of my capacity for eating, papa. It is very unromantic."
Papa smiled, raising his eyelids slightly. He seemed, and in fact was, a little bored. "Haven't we had enough of this?" he asked.
"But we haven't had any yet."
"I don't mean trout—I only hope they won't be drowned in bad butter—I mean of this," and he lazily stretched his arms, indicating the Odenwald.
She sighed. Her secret hope that the journey by carriage might be extended further than planned was waning. "I was never so happy in my life," she exclaimed. "I shall never forget the pine-forests, the hills, the castles; nor the geese in the villages; nor the horrible little cobblestones——"
"Nor the sour wine——"
"That is your French taste, papa. The vin du pays is no better in France. The wine is good enough, if you pay enough."
"The Lützelsachser is drinkable, the Affenthaler even good," admitted Monsieur, indulgent to barbaric vintage; "but think of yesterday!"
"Think of an epicure who expected to get Affenthaler in that poor little village! They gave you the best they had."
"Which was very bad." He laughed good-naturedly. "I dread a similar experience if we continue this method of travel."