for us in the train on long journeys), there isn't a chef de cuisine at a West-end club to be named in the same day with her.
So, when Amelia said, in her imperious way, 'Césarine, we want to go to the Tyrol—now—at once—in mid-October; where do you advise us to put up?'—Césarine answered, like a shot, 'The Erzherzog Johann, of course, at Meran, for the autumn, madame.'
'Is he . . . an archduke?' Amelia asked, a little staggered at such apparent familiarity with Imperial personages.
'Ma foi! no, madame. He is an hotel—as you would say in England, the "Victoria" or the "Prince of Wales's"—the most comfortable hotel in all South Tyrol; and at this time of year, naturally, you must go beyond the Alps; it begins already to be cold at Innsbruck.'
So to Meran we went; and a prettier or more picturesque place, I confess, I have seldom set eyes on. A rushing torrent; high hills and mountain peaks; terraced vineyard slopes; old walls and towers; quaint, arcaded streets; a craggy waterfall; a promenade after the fashion of a German Spa; and when you lift your eyes from the ground, jagged summits of Dolomites: it was a combination such as I had never before beheld; a Rhine town plumped down among green Alpine heights, and threaded by the cool colonnades of Italy.
I approved Césarine's choice; and I was
