I watched myself do all this, you understand, and even managed to applaud in a private way by putting my gloved hands gently together, while I said to Mouse: “And is this your first visit to Paris?” “Yes, I’ve not been here before.” “Ah, then you have a great deal to see.” And I was just going to touch lightly upon the objects of interest and the museums when we wrenched to a stop. Do you know—it’s very absurd—but as I pushed open the door for them and followed up the stairs to the bureau on the landing I felt somehow that this hotel was mine. There was a vase of flowers on the window sill of the bureau and I even went so far as to re-arrange a bud or two and to stand off and note the effect while the manageress welcomed them. And when she turned to me and handed me the keys (the _garçon_ was hauling up the boxes) and said: “Monsieur Duquette will show you your rooms”—I had a longing to tap Dick on the arm with a key and say, very confidentially: “Look here, old chap. As a friend of mine I’ll be only too willing to make a slight reduction . . .” Up and up we climbed. Round and round. Past an occasional pair of boots (why is it one never sees an attractive pair of boots outside a door?). Higher and higher. “I’m afraid they’re rather high up,” I murmured idiotically. “But I chose them because . . .” They so obviously did not care why I chose them that I went no further. They accepted everything. They did not expect anything to be different. This was just part of what they were going through—that was how I analysed it. “Arrived at last.” I ran from one side of the passage to the other, turning on the lights, explaining. “This one I thought for you, Dick. The other is larger and it has a little dressing-room in the alcove.” My “proprietary” eye noted the clean towels and covers, and the bed linen embroidered in red cotton. I thought them rather charming rooms, sloping, full of angles, just the sort of rooms one would expect to find if one had not been to Paris before. Dick dashed his hat down on the bed. “Oughtn’t I to help that chap with the boxes?” he asked—nobody. “Yes, you ought,” replied Mouse, “they’re dreadfully heavy.” And she turned to me with the first glimmer of a smile: “Books, you know.” Oh, he darted such a strange look at her before he rushed out. And he not only helped, he must have torn the box off the _garçon’s_ back, for he staggered back, carrying one, dumped it down and then fetched in the other. “That’s yours, Dick,” said she. “Well, you don’t mind it standing here for the present, do you?” he asked, breathless, breathing hard (the box must have been tremendously heavy). He pulled out a handful of money. “I suppose I ought to pay this chap.” The _garçon_, standing by, seemed to think so too. “And will you require anything further, Monsieur?” “No! No!” said Dick impatiently.