he Rue de Rivoli,
exhausted.

"And much more sensible than the place opposite," his wife replied,
pointing to the palace where the art treasures of Imperial France are
imperially housed.

"_Grande Occasion!_" muttered Mr. Cockayne, when he reached the
hotel--"a grand opportunity for emptying one's pocket. The cheapness is
positively ruinous. I wonder whether there are any cheap white elephants
in Paris?"

"White elephants, Cockayne! White fiddlesticks! I do really think,
girls, your father is gradually--mind, I say, _gradually--gradually_
taking leave of his senses."

"La! mamma," unfortunate Carrie interposed, raising her eyes from a
volume on Paris in the Middle Ages--"la! mamma, you know that in
India----"

"Hold your tongue, Miss--of course I know--and if I didn't, it is not
for _you_ to teach me."

Mr. Timothy Cockayne heaved a deep sigh and rang for his bill.

He was to leave for London on the morrow--and his wife and daughters
were to find lodgings.

CHAPTER VII.

OUR FOOLISH COUNTRYWOMEN.

I Introduce at this point--its proper date--Miss Carrie Cockayne's
letter to Miss Sharp:--

"Grand Hotel, Paris.

"DEAREST EMMY--They are all out shopping, so here's a long
letter. I haven't patience with the men. I am sure we have had enough
abuse in our own country, without travelling all the way to Paris for
it; and yet the first paper I take up in the reading saloon of the
hotel, contains a paragraph headed _Le Beau Sexe en Angleterre_. The
paragraph is violent. The writer wants to know what demon possesses the
Englishwomen at this moment. I might have been sure it was translated
from an English paper. The creature wants to know whether the furies
are let loose, and is very clever about Lucretia Borgia, and Mary
Manning, and Mary Newell! One would think English mothers were all going
to boil their children. This is just what has happened about everything
else. In certain English circles slang is talked: therefore women have
become coarse and vulgar. The Divorce Court has been a busy one of late;
and scandals have been 'going round' as the American ladies in this
hotel say; therefore there are to be no more virtuous mothers and
sisters presently. Upon my word, the audacity of this makes my blood
boil. Here the ladies paint, my dear, one and all. Why, the children in
the Tuileries gardens whisk their skirts, and ogle their boy playmates.
Vanity Fair at it