he replied, disclosing a row of dazzling white teeth:

"What I promised shall be done, Mrs. Jenkins. And now, go in quickly and
shut your window. The fog is cold this morning."

Yes, the fog was cold, but white as snow mist; and, filling the air
outside the glasses of the large brougham, it brightened with soft
gleams the unfolded newspaper in the doctor's hands. Over yonder, in the
populous quarters, confined and gloomy, in the Paris of tradesman
and mechanic, that charming morning haze which lingers in the great
thoroughfares is not known. The bustle of awakening, the going and
coming of the market-carts, of the omnibuses, of the heavy trucks
rattling their old iron, have early and quickly cut it up, unravelled
and scattered it. Every passer-by carries away a little of it in a
threadbare overcoat, a muffler which shows the woof, and coarse gloves
rubbed one against the other. It soaks through the thin blouses, and
the mackintoshes thrown over the working skirts; it melts away at every
breath that is drawn, warm from sleeplessness or alcohol; it is engulfed
in the depths of empty stomachs, dispersed in the shops as they are
opened, and the dark courts, or even to the fireless attics. That is
the reason why there remains so little of it out of doors. But in that
spacious and grandiose region of Paris, which was inhabited by Jenkins's
clients, on those wide boulevards planted with trees, and those deserted
quays, the fog hovered without a stain, like so many sheets, with
waverings and cotton wool-like flakes. The effect was of a place
inclosed, secret, almost sumptuous, as the sun after his slothful
rising began to diffuse softly crimsoned tints, which gave to the mist
enshrouding the rows of houses to their summits the appearance of white
muslin thrown over some scarlet material. One might have fancied it a
great curtain beneath which nothing could be heard save the cautious
closing of some court-yard gate, the tin measuring-cans of the milkmen,
the little bells of a herd of she-asses passing at a quick trot followed
by the short and panting breath of their shepherd, and the dull rumble
of Jenkins's brougham commencing its daily round.

First, to Mora House. This was a magnificent palace on the Quai d'Orsay,
next door to the Spanish embassy, whose long terraces succeeded its own,
having its principal entrance in the Rue de Lille, and a door upon the
side next the river. Between two lofty walls overgrown with ivy, and