“Karascho!” exclaims DAUBINET, who, under the hot rays of the early morning sun, is walking in his shirt-sleeves, his coat over his arm, his hat in one hand, and a big sunshade in the other, “I will tell you.”  Then he commences, and except for now and then breaking off into Russian expletives, and interspersing his discourse with selections from British national melodies, his explanation is lucid, and the reasons evident.  Soil and sun account for everything; the soil being varied, and the sun shifty. “Pou ni my? comprenez-vous?” he asks.

[Illustration:  “Da Karascho!  All r-r-right!”]

I do perfectly, at the moment; but subsequently trying to explain the phenomena scientifically, I find that I have not quite penetrated the mystery au fond.  We visit the Wine-press, which (Happy Thought!) would be an appropriate title for a journal devoted entirely to the wine-growing and wine-vending interests.

“And now,” says M. le Vicomte, “we must return to breakfast, or the sun will be too strong for us.”

So back we go to our eleven o’clock dejeuner in a beautifully cool room, of which repast the sweetest little cray-fish, fresh from the river, are by no means the worst part of the entertainment.  Then coffee, cigars, and lounge.  Yes, there are some things better managed in France than chez nous; and the division of the day between labour and refreshment is, in my humble opinion, one of them.  In the contriving of dainty dishes out of the simplest materials, the French seem to hold that everything is good for food in this best of all possible worlds, if it be only treated on a wise system of variation, permutation, and combination.  We discuss these subjects of the higher education until arrives the inevitable hour of departure.  Let us not linger on the doorstep.  Into the trap again. Bon voyage!  Au revoir! And as passing out of the lodge-gate we get a last glimpse of the party waving adieux to us from the upper terrace, DAUBINET flourishes his hat, and sings out at the top of his voice, “We’re leaving thee in sorrow, ANNIE,” which is more or less appropriate, perhaps; and then, as the last flutter of a pocket-handkerchief is seen, he finishes with “And blass the Prince of WAILES!” After which he subsides, occasionally breaking the silence to sigh aloud, “O Maman!” and thenceforth, for the greater part of the journey to Paris, he slumbers in a more or less jumpy manner.

At the Grand Hotel, Paris.—­“Aha!” cries M. le Baron BLUM,—­always in full Blum at the Grand Hotel,—­“At last! arrived!” as if he had expected us for several weeks past,—­“How are you?  I have your rooms ready for you!” He must have seen us driving into the courtyard, and settled our numbers there and then, not a minute ago.  It’s a great thing for weary travellers to be welcomed on arrival.  No matter if they’re forgotten again the next moment, and not thought of again until