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It was too hot to leave the house for some hours after noon. Cissy herself on a sofa in the coolest earner, declaring it felt something like India, and then suddenly remembered her housewifely responsibilities, rang for Madame Poulin, and entered, somewhat vaguely it must be confessed, on the subject of dinners. All, however, was charmingly satisfactory. Though not professing to do much cooking herself, the good lady assured Madame all could be agreeably arranged, for her brother was the head of the best hotel in Altes, but a two minutes’ walk beyond the post-office, and would supply regularly a dinner for any number from two to a dozen, at a really moderate price. Or if ces dames would prefer a little variety now and then, there was the table d’hôte at this same hotel every day at five, where the choice of viands would be greater and the company of the most select.

“That would be rather amusing now and then for a change” observed Mrs. Archer.

Marion preferred the idea of a private repast, but agreed that they might go and “see what it was like.”