We set the hamper in the centre of our gate-legged table, Helen's especial pride. Real ones were even then becoming hard to pick up. Helen lighted the candles herself, refusing to hear of gas or of assistance. There followed a feast. Cold pheasant, boned turkey, fonds d'artichaut, bottled asparagus d'Argenteuil, cakes and wine jellies, with champagne to top it all off. We made our own coffee over a spirit lamp.
With the third glass of champagne I was all for bringing the younger Helen down from the nursery, as we called it, to respond to her health. On this point her mother was immovable. The child's slumber was not disturbed.
"Madam"—I arose, addressing my wife—"once more permit me to point out to you that this is not at all like the first dinner we once planned."
"I think you have had enough champagne, Ted," was the woman's irrelevant response. "Let's give the last glass to Chitty."
"An excellent idea and a kindly thought, worthy of your woman's heart."
Once more Chitty was summoned. His eyes stared amazement when I poured him a glass of champagne.
"Thank you, sir. Thank you, madam," and he tossed it off with a neat jerk of his head. Meanwhile Helen made him up a heaping plate of food from the hamper.
"Thank you, madam."
He went out, carrying his ration carefully. We finished our coffee sitting on a rug before the fire, Helen tucked up comfortably against me.