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"
When I returned Carlotta was sitting, Turkish fashion, on a sofa,
smoking a cigarette (to which she had helped herself out of my
box) and turning over the pages of a book. This sign of literary
taste surprised me. But I soon found it was the second volume of
my _edition de luxe_ of Louandre's _Les Arts Somptuaires_, to
whose place on the shelves sheer feminine instinct must have
guided her. I announced Mrs. McMurray's proposed visit. She
jumped to her feet, ravished at the prospect, and sent my
beautiful book (it is bound in tree-calf and contains a couple of
hundred exquisitely coloured plates) flying onto the floor. I
picked it up tenderly, and laid it on my writing-table.
"Carlotta," said I, "the first thing you have to learn here is
that books in England are more precious than babies in
Alexandretta. If you pitch them about in this fashion you will
murder them and I shall have you hanged."
This checked her sumptuary excitement. It gave her food for
reflection, and she stood humbly penitent, while I went further
into the subject of clothes.


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