The French proprietor joined his English friend, with his cigar
already lit. He started back in dismay at a sight terrible to his
countrymen in general--the sight of an open window. 'You English
people are perfectly mad on the subject of fresh air!' he exclaimed.
'We shall catch our deaths of cold.'
Francis turned, and looked at him in astonishment. 'Are you really
not aware of the smell there is in the room?' he asked.
'Smell!' repeated his brother-manager. 'I smell my own good cigar.
Try one yourself. And for Heaven's sake shut the window!'
Francis declined the cigar by a sign. 'Forgive me,' he said.
'I will leave you to close the window. I feel faint and giddy--
I had better go out.' He put his handkerchief over his nose and mouth,
and crossed the room to the door.
The Frenchman followed the movements of Francis, in such a state
of bewilderment that he actually forgot to seize the opportunity
of shutting out the fresh air. 'Is it so nasty as that?' he asked,
with a broad stare of amazement.
'Horrible!' Francis muttered behind his handkerchief.
'I never smelt anything like it in my life!'
There was a knock at the door.
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