While he was playing en famille to us one night, Mdme. Munkakczy, his Parisian hostess and wife of the famous Hungarian painter, continued to express her effervescent feelings of delight in whispers so loud and deep: "Ah! que chest beau! Ravissant!" etc., that I, sitting beside her with my open penknife predicted her approaching end, to the amusement of the tittering children. Jolly Madame–not without some scathing remarks, "Mais, I be not Ingleesh!"–had to succumb to my murderous threats and keep silent.