off-hand way, produced a deep sensation. It was Othello over again, with no less than three Desdemonas and a sprinkling of sympathetic senators in the background. Never were the canoes more flattered, or flattered more adroitly.
"It is like a violin," cried one of the girls in an ecstasy.
"I thank you for the word, mademoiselle," said I. "All the more since there are people who call out to me, that it is like a coffin."
"O! but it is really like a violin. It is finished like a violin," she went on.
"And polished like a violin," added a senator.
"One has only to stretch the cords," concluded another, "and then tum-tumty-tum"—he imitated the result with spirit.
Was not this a graceful little ovation? Where this people finds the secret of its pretty speeches, I cannot imagine; unless the secret should be no other than a sincere desire to please? But
