The frog bowed.

“Just so,” he said; “it is the truth.  And, therefore, the extreme difficulty of assisting at so unique a performance.  It is but seldom—­not above half-a-dozen times in the recollection of the oldest of my venerated cousins, the toads, that such an opportunity has occurred—­and as to whether human ears have ever before been regaled with what you are about to enjoy, you must allow me, Monsieur and Mademoiselle, with all deference to your race, for whom naturally we cherish the highest respect, to express a doubt.”

“It’s a little difficult to understand quite what he means, isn’t it, Cheri?” whispered Jeanne.  “But, of course, we mustn’t say so.  It might hurt his feelings.”

“Yes,” agreed Hugh, “it might.  But we must say something polite.”

“You say it,” said Jeanne.  “I really daren’t stand up, and it’s not so easy to make a speech sitting down.”

“Monsieur Frog, we are very much obliged to you,” began Hugh.  “Please tell all the other frogs so too.  We would like very much to hear the concert.  When does it begin, and where will it be?”

“All round the lake the performers will be stationed,” replied the frog pompously.  “The chief artist occupies the island which you see from here.  If you move forward a little—­to about half-way between the shore and the island—­you will, I think, be excellently placed.  But first,” seeing that Hugh was preparing to take up the oars, “first, you will allow us, Monsieur and Mademoiselle, to offer you a little collation—­some slight refreshment after all the fatigues of your journey to our shores.”

“Oh dear! oh dear!” whispered Jeanne in a terrible fright; “please say ‘No, thank you,’ Cheri.  I know they’ll be bringing us that horrid green stuff for soup.”

“Thank you very much,” said Hugh; “you are very kind indeed, Monsieur Frog, only, really, we’re not hungry.”

“A little refreshment—­a mere nothing,” said the frog, waving his hands in an elegantly persuasive manner.  “Tadpoles”—­in a brisk, authoritative tone—­“tadpoles, refreshments for our guests.”

Jeanne shivered, but nevertheless could not help watching with curiosity.  Scores of little tadpoles came hopping up the sides of the boat, each dozen or so of them carrying among them large water-lily leaves, on each of which curious and dainty-looking little cakes and bonbons were arranged.  The first that was presented to Jeanne contained neat little biscuits about the size of a half-crown piece, of a tempting rich brown colour.

“Flag-flour cakes,” said the frog.  “We roast and grind the flour in our own mills.  You will find them good.”

Jeanne took one and found it very good.  She would have taken another, but already a second tray-ful or leaf-ful was before her, with pinky-looking balls.

“Those are made from the sugar of water-brambles,” remarked the frog, with a self-satisfied smile.  “No doubt you are surprised at the delicacy and refinement of our tastes.  Many human beings are under the deplorable mistake of supposing we live on slimy water and dirty insects—­ha, ha, ha! whereas our cuisine is astounding in variety and delicacy of material and flavour.  If it were not too late in the season, I wish you could have tasted our mushroom pates and minnows’ eggs vols-au-vent.”