The little sitting-room was cosy and comfortable; it was his own furniture. There were books about; photographs on the walls and prints of horses and dogs; arms on a rack; and, underneath—it impressed Elly, just as it had impressed her the first time—a portrait of Ottilie at twenty, in an old-fashioned bonnet which made her look exquisitely pretty, like a little heroine in a novel. Strange, thought Elly to herself, Steyn also had pictures of dogs and horses in his room; Steyn also was a hunting man, a man of out-door pursuits; Steyn also was good-looking. She smiled at her reflection that it was always the same sort of manliness that had attracted Ottilie; she smiled just as Lot sometimes smiled at his mother.
"You two are very like each other," said Pauws, as they sat down to table. "Look, children, here's what I've got for you. Everything's ready, you see. Hors d'oeuvres. Do you like caviare, with these toasted rolls?"
"I'm mad on caviare," said Lot.
"I remembered that! After the hors d'oeuvres, a mayonnaise of fish: perhaps that's rather too much fish, but I had to think out a cold menu, for I've no cook and no kitchen. Then there's cold chicken and compote: a Dutch dish for you; they never eat the two together here or in France. Next, there's a pâté-de-foie-gras. And tartlets for you, Elly."
"I'm fond of tartlets too," said Lot, attentively examining the dish.
"All the better. A decent claret, Chateau-Yquem and Heidsieck. I got you some good fruit. Coffee, liqueurs, a cigar, a cigarette for you, Elly, and that's all. It's the best I could do."
"But, Papa, it's delightful!"
The old gentleman was uncorking the champagne, quickly and handily, with a twist of the wires:
"Here goes, children!"
The wine frothed up high.