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“‘Apparently!’ Anita interrupted. ‘They went on better than before. I let Isaac, as we called him, do a great deal more of the cooking than he did before Mr. Rounders came. I thought our meals were remarkably good, and if Mr. Rounders did not like them, as I sometimes thought he did not, I believed it was because he could not help putting on airs even to us.’

“I laughed. ‘Well,’ said I, ‘the state of the case was this: during the whole time Rounders stayed with us, Isadore did not cook one particle of food for him.’

“‘That was impossible,’ cried Anita. ‘I noticed nothing of the kind, and, besides, Mr. Rounders would have found it out immediately.’

“‘Of course neither of us noticed it,’ said I, ‘for Isadore did not serve us with any of the things he gave to Rounders. And as for the latter discovering that he was eating his food raw, he had no idea that such was the case. He supposed he was eating what we ate, and therefore did not like to say anything about it.’

“‘But I do not understand!’ cried Anita. ‘How could any one eat things and not know they were uncooked?’

“‘You do not understand,’ said I, ‘because you do not comprehend the deep and wonderful art of Isadore. Baxter tried to explain some of it to me as he heard it from the lips of the chef himself, but I do not know enough of kitchen magic to understand it. As Isadore waited on us, he was able to bring us well-prepared food, and to give Mr. Rounders something very different, but which looked just like that we had. Even his coffee was served in a cup heated hot in the oven, while the coffee itself had merely been warmed. I cannot explain all these uncooked meals, and if you want to know more you must ask Isadore himself. But Baxter told me that spices and condiments must have been used with wonderful effect, and that the poor man must have lived mostly on biscuits. Isadore said that all his life he would laugh when he thought of Mr. Rounders trying to eat a chicken croquette the inside of which was perfectly raw, while the outside smoked, and looking at the same time with astonishment at you and me as we quietly ate what seemed to be exactly like the thing he had on his plate.’

“‘But, Harold,’ said Anita, ‘that was a shameful way to treat our guest!’

“‘That is what Baxter said to Isadore; but the cook excused himself by stating that all this happened in a cot, in a dear little cot, where everything was different from everything else in the world, and where he had tried to make you and me happy, and where he himself had been so happy, especially when he saw Mr. Rounders trying to eat chicken croquettes. He was also so pleased with the life at the cot that he is going to have one of his own when he goes back to Alsace, which will be shortly, as he has made enough to satisfy his wants, and he intends to retire there and be happy in a cot.’

“Anita reflected for a few moments, and then she said: ‘I think life in a cot might be very happy indeed–for Isaac.'”

With this the Mistress of the House rose from her chair.

“Is that at all?” exclaimed her daughter. “There are several things I want to know.”

“That is all,” replied the story-teller. “Like the good King of Siam, I consider my already overtaxed subjects.” And with this she went into the house.

“Do either of you suppose,” remarked the Master of the House, “that that Anita woman gave the whole of that great estate to the widow and her two children? How much land do you think, John Gayther, was enclosed inside that chicken wire?”

“I have been calculating it in my head,” replied the gardener, “and it must have been over a thousand acres. And for my part, sir, I don’t believe it was all given to the widow. When Mr. Baxter came to attend to the papers I think he made over the cot and about seven acres of land, which was quite enough to be attended to by a half-grown boy.”

“That is my opinion, too,” said the Daughter of the House, “and I think that the opulent owner of that great estate made a deer-park of the rest of it, with reindeer, fallow deer, red deer, stags, and all sorts of deer, and not one of them able to jump over the wire.”

“Ah, me!” said the captain, rising and folding his arms as he leaned his broad back against a pillar of the summer-house, “these great volcanoes of wealth, always in eruption, always squirting out town houses, country houses, butlers, chefs, under-chefs, diamonds, lady’s-maids, horses, carriages, seaside gardens, thousand-acre poultry-yards, private sidewalks, and clouds of money which obscure the sun, daze my eyes and amaze my soul! John Gayther, I wish you would send me one of your turnip-hoers; I want him to take my second-best shoes to be mended.”