"It was the first French novel of manners published about 1620 and
written by a man called Sorel. I don't dream of accusing you of
plagiarism, my dear fellow--that's absurd. But the ridiculous
coincidence struck me. You and the Grefin and the rest of you were
merely reenacting a three hundred year old farce."

"Rubbish!" said Pasquale.

"I'll show you," said I.

After wandering for a moment or two round my shelves, I remembered that
the book was in the dining-room. I left Pasquale and went downstairs.
I knew it was on one of the top shelves near the ceiling. Now, my
dining-room is lit by one shaded electrolier over the table, so that
the walls of the room are in deep shadow. This has annoyed me many times
when I have been book-hunting. I really must have some top lights
put in. To stand on a chair and burn wax matches in order to find
a particular book is ignominious and uncomfortable. The successive
illumination of four wax matches did not shed itself upon _L'Histoire
Comique de Francion_.

If there is one thing that frets me more than another, it is not to be
able to lay my hand upon a book. I knew Francion was there on the top
shelves, and rather than leave it undiscovered, I would have spent the
whole night in search. I suppose every one has a harmless lunacy. This
is mine. I must have hunted for that book for twenty minutes, pulling
out whole blocks of volumes and peering with lighted matches behind,
until my hands were covered with dust. At last I found it had fallen to
the rear of a ragged regiment of French novels, and in triumph I took it
to the area of light on the table and turned up the scene in question.
Keeping my thumb in the place I returned to the drawing-room.

"I'm sorry to have--" I began. I stopped short. I could scarcely believe
my eyes. There, conversing with Pasquale and lolling on the sofa, as if
she had known him for years, was Carlotta.

She must have seen righteous disapprobation on my face, for she came
running up to me.

"You see, I've made Miss Carlotta's acquaintance," said Pasquale.

"So I perceive," said I.

"Stenson told me you wanted me to come to the drawing-room in my red
slippers," said Carlotta.

"I am afraid Stenson must have misdelivered my message," said I.

"Then you do not want me at all, and I must go away?"

Oh, those eyes! I am growing so tired of them. I hesitated, and was
lost.

"Please let me stay and talk to Pasquale."

"Mr. Pasquale," I corrected.