ABSTRACT
WE are having our last supper. As a final send off they give us a portion of one of the maize-bloated ducks, an especial treat, so that as we travel the duck gently digesting shall call up tender memories of the dear Sestrol family. We have a prejudice for travelling light and, already cumbered with the earthen oil-jar, we have resisted many an over-kind offer, the country putting its generous best at the feet of the benighted town-dweller. We have declined leashes of live chicken, or charges of struggling duck which we should have to slaughter in our Parisian studio. We have also declined crates of grapes, of apples, of pears and sackfuls of walnuts. No, the peasant is not always mean. A bottle of the famous walnut elixir we also refused, having tasted it once and found it wanting. But even during our stay in Janac we had been forced to withhold the addresses of our friends and relatives to all of whom Sestrol wished to post parcels of fruit.
