I woke up very gradually this morning, and it took me a little while
to bethink myself where I had slept--that it had not been in my own
room in the Cromwell Road. I lay a-bed, with eyes half-closed,
drowsily look looking forward to the usual procession of sober-hued
London hours, and, for the moment, quite forgot the journey of
yesterday, and how it had left me in Paris, a guest in the smart new
house of my old friend, Nina Childe. Indeed, it was not until somebody
tapped on my door, and I roused myself to call out 'Come in,' that I
noticed the strangeness of the wall-paper, and then, after an instant
of perplexity, suddenly remembered. Oh, with a wonderful lightening of
the spirit, I can tell you.

A white-capped, brisk young woman, with a fresh-coloured, wholesome
peasant face, came in, bearing a tray--Jeanne, Nina's femme-de-chambre.

'Bonjour, monsieur,' she cried cheerily. 'I bring monsieur his
coffee.' And her announcement was followed by a fragrance--the
softly-sung response of the coffee-sprite. Her tray, with its pretty
freight of silver and linen, primrose butter, and gently-browned
pain-de-gruau, she set down on the table at my elbow; then she crossed
the room and drew back the window-curtains, making the rings tinkle
crisply on the metal rods, and letting in a gush of dazzling sunshine.
From where I lay I could see the house-fronts opposite glow
pearly-grey in shadow, and the crest of the slate roofs sharply print
itself on the sky, like a black line on a sheet of scintillant blue
velvet. Yet, a few minutes ago, I had been fancying myself in the
Cromwell Road.

Jeanne, gathering up my scattered garments, to take them off and brush