We had walked about longer than we thought, but everything is close together, and it was time to get back to the hotel for breakfast. I had the dining-room almost to myself--my table was drawn up close to the open window, a vase of roses upon it, and one or two papers--English, Italian, and the "Figaro." Paris seems to be amusing itself. Henrietta writes that the Champs Elysées are enchanting--all the horse chestnuts in full bloom. Here there is abundance of flowers--one gets glimpses of pretty gardens through open gates and openings in railings and walls. There are plenty of street stalls, too, with fruits and flowers, but one doesn't see the wealth of roses and wistaria climbing over every bit of wall and up the sides of houses as in Florence. The city is perfectly busy and prosperous, but has none of the delightful look of laziness and enjoyment of life and the blue sky and the sunshine that one feels in Rome and Florence. W. came in about 3, having had a delightful morning in the cabinet des médailles. The Director, a most learned, courteous old gentleman, was waiting for him, and though he knew W. and his collection by reputation, he was quite surprised to find that W. knew quite as much about his coins and treasures as he did himself. He hadn't supposed it possible that a statesman with so many interests and calls upon his time could have kept up his scientific work. We shall leave to-morrow night, and before we started for our drive we sent off letters and telegrams to Paris. I can hardly believe it possible that Friday morning I shall be breakfasting in Paris, going to mother to tea in the afternoon, and taking up my ordinary life. Henrietta writes that she has told Francis we are coming home, but frankness compels her to say that he has received that piece of information with absolute indifference. He has been as happy as a king all the months we have been away--spoiled to his heart's content and everybody in the two establishments his abject slaves.