He replied that he never did, went on quickly; they stepped into a cab at the door; and on the way to the hotel Mrs. Troup expressed contrition as a courier. “I shouldn’t have given you this for your first impression of Paris,” she said. “We ought to have waited until morning and then gone to the Sainte Chapelle. I’ll try to make up for to-night by taking you there the first thing to-morrow.” He murmured something to the effect that he would be glad to see whatever she chose to show him, and afterward she could not remember that they had any further conversation until they reached their apartment in the hotel. There she again expressed her regret, not with particular emphasis, of course, but rather lightly; for to her mind, at least, the evening’s experience was the slightest of episodes; and her brother told her not to “bother,” but to “forget it.” He spoke casually, even negligently, but she was able to recall that as he went into his own room and closed the door, his forehead still showed the same frown, perhaps of disapproval, that she had observed in the theatre. The outer door of the apartment, giving entrance to their little hallway, opened upon a main corridor of the hotel; she locked this door and took the key with her into her bedchamber, having some vague idea that her jewels were thus made safer; and this precaution of hers later made it certain that her brother had not gone out again, but without doubt passed the night in his own room—in his own room and asleep, so far as might be guessed. * * * * * Her little girl’s nurse woke her the next morning; and the woman’s voice and expression showed such distress, even to eyes just drowsily opening, that Mrs. Troup jumped up at once. “Is something wrong with Jeannette?” “No, ma’am. It is Mr. Blake.” “Is he ill?” “I think so. That is, I don’t know, ma’am. A _valet-de-chambre_ went into his room half an hour ago, and Mr. Blake hid himself under the bed.” “What?” “Perhaps you’d better come and see, ma’am. The _valet-de-chambre_ is very frightened of him.” But it was poor young Mr. Blake who was afraid of the _valet-de-chambre_, and of everybody else, for that matter, as Mrs. Troup discovered. He declined to come out from under the bed so long as she and the nurse and the valet were present, and in response to his sister’s entreaties, he earnestly insisted that she should leave the room at once and take the servants with her. “But what’s the matter, Charlie dear?” she asked, greatly disturbed. “_Why_ are you under the bed?” In his voice, as he replied, a pathetic indignation was audible: “Because I haven’t got any clothes on!” At this her relief was manifest, and she began to laugh. “Good heavens——” “But no, madame!” the valet explained. “He has his clothes on. He is dressed all entirely. If you will stoop and look——”