Mrs. O----'s next question was, "Oh! have you a flat?" "A flat!! No," I said, "we have a hotel. Every one knows our hotel in the Rue de Courcelles." I then proceeded to forget the O----s and everything concerning them. This morning, when we were at luncheon, the _concierge_ came rushing in, the tassels on his _calotte_ bristling with agitation. "Madame," he gasped, "there is a fiacre full of people with a lot of trunks asking to come in to Madame. I can't understand what they want." His emotion choked him. We all said in unison: "Ask for their cards. Who can they be?" The _concierge_ came back with Mr. O----'s card. I recollected my impulsive invitation and thought it very polite of them to be so _empressés_. I went into the salon, followed by Mademoiselle W----, where we found Mr. O---- seated at his ease in a _fauteuil_, his feet reposing on the white-bear rug. I apologized for having kept him waiting, but explained that we had been at luncheon. He (complacently), "Oh, that's all right; we have just arrived in Paris and we came straight to you." I felt overwhelmed at such a keen appreciation of my politeness. "How is Mrs. O----?" I said. He answered with the inevitable "Oh!" "Oh! she's all right. She's outside in the cab." "Indeed!" I said, and wondered why she had not sent her card in with his, though I supposed she was waiting to be asked to come in, if he found me at home. "We thought before trying anywhere else we would see if you could take us in." This staggered me considerably. I tried to take _him_ "in" as he stood before me with traveling cap and umbrella. "Are you full?" he went on. Mademoiselle and I wondered if we showed signs of a too copious luncheon. "Why, what a nice place you have here!" looking about. "Well," he continued, nothing daunted, "you see, we only want one bedroom, for us, with a room next for baby, and one not too far off for Arthur." What was he driving at? Mademoiselle W---- thought he was either a spy or a burglar who had come to take a survey of the hotel. Her bracelets and bunch of keys rattled ominously as the thought of burglars entered her brain. He, familiarly settling himself down for a chat, "Do you think you could pick up a maid for Mrs. O----?" Mademoiselle and I exchanged a glance of intelligent indulgence and thought: All our friends wanted, probably, was a few addresses before settling themselves in Paris. How stupid of us not to have thought of this sooner! I hastened to promise all sorts of names and addresses of tradespeople, thinking he would take his departure. Not he! On the contrary, he tucked his umbrella more firmly under his arm, and turned to Mademoiselle W----: "Have you got a register?" taking her, no doubt, for _la dame du comptoir_. Mademoiselle draped herself in her most Rachel-like attitude and glanced knowingly at the hot-air flue which she had been told was a register.