Her soup had been determined upon and was off her mind, and she had prepared that morning, from some residuary viands, which would have been wasted had she not used them in this way, the little entree which was to follow.  Her filet, which the butcher had that morning declared he never separated from the contiguous portions for any one, but had very soon afterward cut out for her, lay in the refrigerator, awaiting her pleasure and convenience.  The vegetables had been chosen, and her thoughts were now intent upon a “sweet” which should harmonize with the other courses.

On a chair, by the door opening into the garden, sat George, the doctor’s man, who was coachman, groom, and gardener, and who, having picked a basket of peas, had been requested to shell them.  By an open window, Amanda, the chambermaid, was extracting the stones from a little dish of olives.

George was working rapidly and a little impatiently.

“Madam,” said he, “do you want all these peas shelled?”

La Fleur turned and looked at him with a pleasant smile.

“I want enough to surround my filet, but whether you shell enough for us to have any, depends entirely on your good will, George.”

“Of course I’ll shell as many as you want,” said he, “but I’ve got a lot to do this afternoon.  There is the phaeton to be washed, that I don’t want the doctor to come home and find muddy yet; and I ought to have done it this morning, madam, when I was walking about the garden with you, a tellin’ you what I had and a hearin’ what I ought to have.”

“I was so glad to have you go with me, and show me everything,” said La Fleur, “because I do not yet exactly understand American gardens.  It is such a nice garden, too, and you do not know how pleased I was, after you left me and I was coming to the house, to see that fine bed of aubergines.  When will any of them be ripe, do you think, George?”

The man looked up in surprise.

“There is nothing of that sort in my garden,” said he.  “I never heard of them.”

“Oh, yes, you have,” said La Fleur, “you call them egg-plants.  You see, I am learning your American names for things.  And now, Amanda, if you have finished the olives I’ll get you to make a fine powder of those things which I have put into the mortar.  Thump and grind them well with the pestle; they are to make the stuffing for the olives.”

“But, madam, what is to become of the sewing Mrs. Tolbridge wants me to do?  I have only hemmed two of the dozen napkins she gave me to do day before yesterday.”

“Now, Amanda,” said La Fleur, “you ought to know very well, that without a meal on the table, napkins are of no use.  You might have the meals without napkins, but it wouldn’t work the other way.  And I am sure those napkins are not to be used for a week, or perhaps several weeks, and this dinner must be eaten to-day.  So you can see for yourself—­”

At this moment there was a knock at the inner door of the kitchen.