Monsieur Stanislas Rosing was fast asleep, and drearning very agreeably of the many things in life that still held interest for him, when his excellent housekeeper, Justine, after a preliminary tap upon the door, entered the room with his can of hot water. _
Monsieur Rosing sighed and stirred: he was m the midst of a particularly pleasant dream during the course of which he was young once more, and strong, and loved by women who paid homage to him because he was a greatartist, and they were proud to kiss his hand. Surely, surely, he could have been left in peace a moment longer! He turned on his side, uttering a stifled sound of protest, then as sleep began so swiftly to elude him, he immediately became conscious that Justine, once agam,
had chosen to disobey him. <
He sat up in bed like an angry lion, his nightcap cocked
over one eye. "Justine!"
Justine's face and voice were completely devoid ot
all expression. . .
"How many times," Rosing demanded, his voice shaking with anger, "how many times, woman, must I forbid you to enter my room in the morning wearing those noisy and abominable clogs? Where are your feit slippers? Where, indeed, are your manners, your docility, your attentiveness to all my wishes? Do not let me have to
mention this matter again!"
Justine answered stolidly: "I put on my clogs expres. "You dare to stand there admitting that you disobey
me on purpose?"