or its officials were to be
examined by Prince Florizel in person.

_Here_ (says my Arabian author) _ends The Story of_ THE YOUNG MAN WITH
THE CREAM TARTS, _who is now a comfortable householder in Wigmore
Street, Cavendish Square. The number, for obvious reasons, I suppress.
Those who care to pursue the adventures of Prince Florizel and the
President of the Suicide Club, may read_

THE STORY OF THE PHYSICIAN AND THE SARATOGA TRUNK

Mr. Silas Q. Scuddamore was a young American of a simple and harmless
disposition, which was the more to his credit as he came from New
England--a quarter of the New World not precisely famous for those
qualities. Although he was exceedingly rich, he kept a note of all his
expenses in a little paper pocket-book; and he had chosen to study the
attractions of Paris from the seventh story of what is called a
furnished hotel in the Latin Quarter. There was a great deal of habit in
his penuriousness; and his virtue, which was very remarkable among his
associates, was principally founded upon diffidence and youth.

The next room to his was inhabited by a lady, very attractive in her air
and very elegant in toilette, whom, on his first arrival, he had taken
for a Countess. In course of time he had learned that she was known by
the name of Madame Zephyrine, and that whatever station she occupied in
life it was not that of a person of title. Madame Zephyrine, probably in
the hope of enchanting the young American, used to flaunt by him on the
stairs with a civil inclination, a word of course, and a knock-down look
out of her black eyes, and disappear in a rustle of silk, and with the
revelation of an admirable foot and ankle. But these advances, so far
from encouraging Mr. Scuddamore, plunged him into the depths of
depression and bashfulness. She had come to him several times for a
light, or to apologise for imaginary depredations of her poodle; but his
mouth was closed in the presence of so superior a being, his French
promptly left him, and he could only stare and stammer until she was
gone. The slenderness of their intercourse did not prevent him from
throwing out insinuations of a very glorious order when he was safely
alone with a few males.

The room on the other side of the American's--for there were three rooms
on a floor in the hotel--was tenanted by an old English physician of
rather doubtful reputation. Dr. Noel, for that was his name, had been
forced to leave London, where he enjo