After wandering for a moment or two round my shelves, I remembered that the book was in the dining-room. I left Pasquale and went downstairs. I knew it was on one of the top shelves near the ceiling. Now, my dining-room is lit by one shaded electrolier over the table, so that the walls of the room are in deep shadow. This has annoyed me many times when I have been book-hunting. I really must have some top lights put in. To stand on a chair and burn wax matches in order to find a particular book is ignominious and uncomfortable. The successive illumination of four wax matches did not shed itself upon _L’Histoire Comique de Francion_. If there is one thing that frets me more than another, it is not to be able to lay my hand upon a book. I knew Francion was there on the top shelves, and rather than leave it undiscovered, I would have spent the whole night in search. I suppose every one has a harmless lunacy. This is mine. I must have hunted for that book for twenty minutes, pulling out whole blocks of volumes and peering with lighted matches behind, until my hands were covered with dust. At last I found it had fallen to the rear of a ragged regiment of French novels, and in triumph I took it to the area of light on the table and turned up the scene in question. Keeping my thumb in the place I returned to the drawing-room. “I’m sorry to have--” I began. I stopped short. I could scarcely believe my eyes. There, conversing with Pasquale and lolling on the sofa, as if she had known him for years, was Carlotta. She must have seen righteous disapprobation on my face, for she came running up to me. “You see, I’ve made Miss Carlotta’s acquaintance,” said Pasquale. “So I perceive,” said I. “Stenson told me you wanted me to come to the drawing-room in my red slippers,” said Carlotta. “I am afraid Stenson must have misdelivered my message,” said I. “Then you do not want me at all, and I must go away?” Oh, those eyes! I am growing so tired of them. I hesitated, and was lost. “Please let me stay and talk to Pasquale.” “Mr. Pasquale,” I corrected. She echoed my words with a cooing laugh, and taking my consent for granted, curled herself up in a corner of the sofa. I resumed my seat with a sigh. It would have been boorish to turn her out. “This is much nicer than Alexandretta, isn’t it?” said Pasquale familiarly. “And Sir Marcus is an improvement on Hamdi Effendi.” “Oh, yes. Seer Marcous lets me do whatever I like,” said Carlotta. “I’m shot if I do,” I exclaimed. “The confinement of your existence in the East makes you exaggerate the comparative immunity from restriction which you enjoy in England.” I notice that Carlotta is always impressed when I use high sounding words. “Still, if you could make love over garden walls, you must have had a pretty slack time, even in Alexandretta,” said Pasquale. Obviously Carlotta had saved me the trouble of explaining her.