ht terrible to his countrymen
in general--the sight of an open window. 'You English people are
perfectly mad on the subject of fresh air!' he exclaimed. 'We shall
catch our deaths of cold.'

Francis turned, and looked at him in astonishment. 'Are you really not
aware of the smell there is in the room?' he asked.

'Smell!' repeated his brother-manager. 'I smell my own good cigar. Try
one yourself. And for Heaven's sake shut the window!'

Francis declined the cigar by a sign. 'Forgive me,' he said. 'I will
leave you to close the window. I feel faint and giddy--I had better go
out.' He put his handkerchief over his nose and mouth, and crossed the
room to the door.

The Frenchman followed the movements of Francis, in such a state of
bewilderment that he actually forgot to seize the opportunity of
shutting out the fresh air. 'Is it so nasty as that?' he asked, with a
broad stare of amazement.

'Horrible!' Francis muttered behind his handkerchief. 'I never smelt
anything like it in my life!'

There was a knock at the door. 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. My little loves, do you sniff a nasty smell
here--ha?' The children burst out laughing, and answered emphatically,
'No.' 'My good Westwick,' the Frenchman resumed, in his own language,
'the conclusion is surely plain? There is something wrong, very wrong,
with your own nose. I recommend you to see