strange and a dull one. She possesses a house, one wonders why, when a bedroom seems to be all that she requires. She lives in her bedroom as Englishwomen of the same class live in their parlours. That a salon was made for use, to be sat in and worked in and talked in, never enters her head. She uses her dining-room only for meals, and thus never has any fire in it during the winter, does not dream of lighting the stove which every French salle à manger has, however small. She puts on a shawl to go into lunch and dinner. The salon is hermetically sealed all the week, and opened gingerly should she have an at-home day; if not, it is opened only when some very important visitors call. I have known a little bourgeoise, whose "paying guest" I, for my misfortune, happened to be, who allowed the inmates of her establishment to pass into the salon after dinner for exactly an hour. At nine o'clock she rose and graciously dismissed us from the sacred precincts, bidding us disperse to our chambers, while she locked up the holy of holies. Here, as elsewhere, I discovered that such a thing as a comfortable chair or sofa is unknown, undreamed of by the little bourgeoise. To do her justice, she never lounges herself, and consequently does not understand the need. This is the admirable side of her character,—the complete absence of self-indulgence. She swindles you, not for her
