The scene-painter appeared.
His employer instantly asked him if he smelt anything.
'I smell your cigar. Delicious! Give me one directly!'
'Wait a minute. Besides my cigar, do you smell anything else--vile,
abominable, overpowering, indescribable, never-never-never-smelt before?'
The scene-painter appeared to be puzzled by the vehement energy
of the language addressed to him. 'The room is as fresh and sweet
as a room can be,' he answered. As he spoke, he looked back with
astonishment at Francis Westwick, standing outside in the corridor,
and eyeing the interior of the bedchamber with an expression
of undisguised disgust.
The Parisian director approached his English colleague, and looked
at him with grave and anxious scrutiny.
'You see, my friend, here are two of us, with as good noses as yours,
who smell nothing. If you want evidence from more noses, look there!'
He pointed to two little English girls, at play in the corridor.
'The door of my room is wide open--and you know how fast a smell
can travel. Now listen, while I appeal to these innocent noses,
in the language of their own dismal island.
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