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Rh which seems to give to "Ah, oui" the force of "Why, of course. You ought to have known it." "Take the pain, monsieur, to enter into the salon, and to seat yourself."

Obviously, this was not Mademoiselle Personette. He handed her his visiting-card, and added, "Say that it is the gentleman who advertised in the Morning News."

"Hein, oui, monsieur; le Mawnee Noose," she repeated, with a toss of the head, to show that she understood; and, dropping a courtesy, vanished.

After she was gone, he sat down, and began to look around him.

It was rather a pretty, though a very modest, little room, this salon; a bright, cheerful little room; triangle-shaped, or nearly so, as such a number of rooms in Paris are. The walls were panelled in white and gold; though the white had begun to turn yellow, and the gold to tarnish,—in some places, indeed, to scale off. An immense looking-glass, in a gilt frame sculptured with flowers and leaves and grotesque grinning faces, surmounted the mantel, by the aid of which Ormizon gave a touch or two to his cravat and subdued a refractory lock of hair. By chains, from the centre of the ceiling, swung a large old-fashioned lamp, of bronze and porcelain, with a shade big enough for an umbrella. A flood of sunshine pouring in through the open windows did a great deal to atone for a certain scantiness of furniture, and supplied the place of a carpet upon the highly-polished floor. An upright piano, with a lot of music piled on top of it, an engraving of Titian's Flora, two little landscapes in oil, a photograph of the Cathedral at Rouen, and a plaster bust of Victor Hugo, spoke for the fine arts; while a well-filled book-case represented letters. The air bore a faint, elusive, aromatic odor, something like sandal-wood, something like dried rose-leaves, the source of which Ormizon could not determine, but which, as he afterward found out, issued from a pot-pourri of old red Kaga, on the centre-table, under the hanging lamp. He was trying, not very successfully, to deduce from these surroundings some more definite idea of their proprietress than he had got already from the sound of her name, when the door opened, and

"Why, Mr. Ormizon!" cried an agreeable womanly voice, in which surprise and pleasure were evenly blended.

In a twinkling Ormizon was on his feet and half-way across the room. He saw before him a decidedly pretty, plump little lady, perhaps thirty years of age, whose face was wreathed in smiles, and whose hands were extended toward him in a manner that betokened great and genuine cordiality, mingled with considerable bewilderment and wonder.

"Why, Miss—why, Dr.—Gluck!" he stammered. "Why—well—well, I declare!"

Then he took possession of the proffered hands; and they stood together, speechless, waiting each apparently for the other to commence an explanation.