"Mrs. K., do come and see this man."
She came. Together we stared at him with rigid and severe countenances.
"Dreadful!" said I, remembering the Sunday school.
"Awful!" said she, recalling the pious ancestors. And again we shook our heads at his blandishments to the point of dislocation. The driver, who had been all this time tipped back against a tree, began to show symptoms of impatience. Something must be done.
"Suppose you ask for some one who can speak English," suggested Mrs. K.
"Sure enough." And I did. With one last, terrible grimace the ogre's heels disappeared up the second flight of stairs.
There came down in a moment a thoroughly respectable appearing porter, who informed us, in English, that we were expected, our telegram having been received; though, through the ambiguity of its address, it had been sent first to a house below. The people there had promised to forward us, however, in case we followed the telegram. This accounted for the movements of the little portress.
The ogre proved to be a most good-natured concierge, who had been instructed to keep the door open in anticipation of our arrival.
So our fears had been but feathers, after all, blown away by a breath; our troubles only a dream, to be laughed over in the awakening.