Mrs. O——'s next question was, "Oh! have you a flat?"
"A flat!! No," I said, "we have a hotel. Every one knows our hotel in the
Rue de Courcelles."
I then proceeded to forget the O——s and everything concerning them. This morning, when we were at luncheon, the concierge came rushing in, the tassels on his calotte bristling with agitation.
"Madame," he gasped, "there is a fiacre full of people with a lot of trunks asking to come in to Madame. I can't understand what they want." His emotion choked him.
We all said in unison: "Ask for their cards. Who can they be?"
The concierge came back with Mr. O——'s card.
I recollected my impulsive invitation and thought it very polite of them to be so empressés. I went into the salon, followed by Mademoiselle W——, where we found Mr. O—— seated at his ease in a fauteuil, his feet reposing on the white-bear rug.
I apologized for having kept him waiting, but explained that we had been at luncheon.
He (complacently), "Oh, that's all right; we have just arrived in Paris and we came straight to you."
I felt overwhelmed at such a keen appreciation of my politeness.