I was expecting to fall into Miss Curtis's arms, but it would have been an empty fall, for she wasn't there. I didn't know, when I wired her, that there were two stations, so I suppose she didn't know which to choose. I could have gone with Mrs. Bigelow and the others, but I thought Miss Curtis would have engaged a room for me here, so I wanted to try this place, anyway. One of the Ambulance men, Mr. Baxter, offered to bring me here and see me installed. There were no taxis left, and it was still drizzling, and you know my luggage,--the eleventh hour Altman winter flannels boiling out of the carryall with price-marks dangling and soiled from constant exposure,--and me tired and dirty with the ship still going round in my head, standing alone by a dark and empty cabstand at 10.30 p.m. in Paris, the unknown. The others all rattled off, and Mr. Baxter disappeared to find a taxi, and I sidled up behind a big French soldier for comfort. I saw the fat French woman to say good-bye and thanked her for being so bien gentille to me. I told her that "elle m'avait fait senter la bien venue en France," which was rotten French, and she said, "Mais Mlle. est si aimable." I could have hugged her, and I felt as though she were a great big mother, twice, three times, your size, Mother. Mr. Baxter manufactured a taxi out of nothing and we bundled in the bag and baggage without any idea how far our place was from the Quai d'Orsai. It was nice to be on terra-cotta--to be in a place where you don't have to show your birth certificate before you can order an egg, as he said. The only thing that any one has told me that's true is that Paris is dark. I don't see how the taxi-men can drive at all. We rattled along, and finally came to a street that looked like a tunnel--a faint light at the other end--that's all. At the very blackest point we stopped, the driver said, "C'est l'hôtel," and by the light of a match we could see a black sign with gold letters beside a door that looked like the door of a stable, saying that, indeed, it was Hôtel des St. Pères--but oh, so dark. It looked as though Louis Treize's sub-valet de chambre had boarded it up and gone away and that no one had ever been there since. We knocked and knocked, and after ages we heard a shuffling step and the great black doors swung open. There stood the sleepiest, wall-eyed person, almost entirely covered by a big spotted butcher's apron. I asked in uncertain tones if they had place for Miss Root, and he shook his head and I asked if he knew Miss Curtis, and he said no, and then I asked if I could get a room. It was the most awful-looking place. I didn't know just what to do. He made for a dark flight of stairs,--the janitor, I mean,--and I started to follow him. I asked Mr. Baxter if he supposed the janitor was a concierge, and he told me that jardinière was the nearest he could get to it. Upstairs we went on dark-red carpet, past maroon walls--up and up and up. Very high ceilings