Arriving at the door, the Frenchman bethought himself of his travelling companion. “My scene-painter is here with me,” he said, “on the look-out for materials. An excellent fellow, who will take it as a kindness if we ask him to join us. I’ll tell the porter to send him up when he comes in.” He handed the key of his room to Francis. “I will be back in a minute. It’s at the end of the corridor—13 A.” Francis entered the room alone. There were the decorations on the walls and the ceiling, exactly as they had been described to him! He had just time to perceive this at a glance, before his attention was diverted to himself and his own sensations, by a grotesquely disagreeable occurrence which took him completely by surprise. He became conscious of a mysteriously offensive odour in the room, entirely new in his experience of revolting smells. It was composed (if such a thing could be) of two mingling exhalations, which were separately-discoverable exhalations nevertheless. This strange blending of odours consisted of something faintly and unpleasantly aromatic, mixed with another underlying smell, so unutterably sickening that he threw open the window, and put his head out into the fresh air, unable to endure the horribly infected atmosphere for a moment longer. The French proprietor joined his English friend, with his cigar already lit. He started back in dismay at a sight terrible to his countrymen in general—the sight of an open window. “You English people are perfectly mad on the subject of fresh air!” he exclaimed. “We shall catch our deaths of cold.” Francis turned, and looked at him in astonishment. “Are you really not aware of the smell there is in the room?” he asked. “Smell!” repeated his brother-manager. “I smell my own good cigar. Try one yourself. And for Heaven’s sake shut the window!” Francis declined the cigar by a sign. “Forgive me,” he said. “I will leave you to close the window. I feel faint and giddy—I had better go out.” He put his handkerchief over his nose and mouth, and crossed the room to the door. The Frenchman followed the movements of Francis, in such a state of bewilderment that he actually forgot to seize the opportunity of shutting out the fresh air. “Is it so nasty as that?” he asked, with a broad stare of amazement. “Horrible!” Francis muttered behind his handkerchief. “I never smelt anything like it in my life!” There was a knock at the door. The scene-painter appeared. His employer instantly asked him if he smelt anything. “I smell your cigar. Delicious! Give me one directly!” “Wait a minute. Besides my cigar, do you smell anything else—vile, abominable, overpowering, indescribable, never-never-never-smelt before?”