We had hired two pillows at a franc each, according to the convenient custom on the Paris-Orléans railway, and thanks to them, the worst part of the eleven hours was spent in sleep that was just pleasantly conscious of the stops at the stations, and was lulled into blander repose by an occasional muffled squall from the pandemonium next door. At Blois the daylight began, and it was then, in the cold dawn, while the train shuffled uneasily to and fro on meaningless sidings, and the green-grey mass of a great castle deepened each time we looked from behind the blinds, that we drew forth the half bottle of Grand St. Lambert that had for the last few days been carried perilously about in a bonnet-box, and with grapes and _croissants_ began a repast that continued through stages of bovril, tea, and gingerbread biscuits till we neared Paris. The water for the tea was near proving a difficulty. To get it, it was necessary to shuffle in ‘night’s disarray’ to the buffet, and a fair amount of nerve was required to advance through the crowd of sleepily devouring men and fill a disreputable tin kettle from a carafe of water under the very eyes of an indignant waiter. We flatter ourselves that the most courageous man of our acquaintance would have been afraid to do it. There is on the south side of the Seine, not far from the Gare Montparnasse, a hotel beloved of art students. It is clean and cheap, and is bounded on all sides by the tram lines that cleave Paris through and through, and put the whole town in the hollow of one’s hand for six sous (_avec correspondance_). The Quartier Latin looked as fresh and clean and respectable on this October morning as if it had not a world-wide reputation for opposite qualities, and as mademoiselle of the hotel rushed out and greeted us in such strange English as is learnt from American art students, and with the effusion that is reserved by her for old friends, a serene assurance settled down upon us that here, at least, our appearance, manners, and accents would excite no surprise. We had our luncheon at a _crêmerie_, a place known of yore, where a beefsteak (_saignant_, according to French custom, unless specially forbidden), _confiture_, a saucerful of curd known as _fromage à la crême_, and a cup of black coffee could be obtained in sufficient cleanliness for a franc or less. It was rather too early in the season for the art student to be in full bloom; the two hot little rooms that were so like the cabins of an inferior steamer were almost empty, instead of being stuffed to their utmost capacity and resounding with as many languages as the Tower of Babel, and when we went on to the studio, and, with pleasurable anticipation, climbed the long staircase and knocked at the door, no voice responded. There was no one there. The easels were heaped up in one corner, the stools in another, the clock had stopped, the model stand was covered with dust, and desponding