There!  It was recognized as the ring of a genteel gentleman, and Madame Flamingo’s heavy foot is heard advancing up the hall.  Be a diplomatist now.  Show a white glove, and a delicate hand, and a winning smile, and you have secured your passport to the satin and brocade of her mansion.  A spring is heard to tick, a whisper of caution to some one within follows, and a block broad enough to admit your hat swings open, disclosing the voluptuous splendor of a great hall, the blaze of which flashes upon your senses, and fills you instinctively with curious emotions.  Simultaneously a broad, cheerful face, somewhat matronly in its aspect, and enlivened with an urbane smile, darkens the space.  After a few moments’ pause we see two sharp gray eyes peering curiously at us, and a soft but quick accenting voice inquires who we are.  Ah! yes, the white glove has told who we are, for the massive doors swing open, and we find ourselves in a long, stately hall, resplendent of Persian carpets, lounges in tapestry, walls and ceiling frescoed in uncouth and bright-colored designs, and curiously wrought chandeliers, shedding over all a bewitching light.  The splendor is more gaudy than regal; it strikes our fancy, but leaves our admiration unmoved.  The door is suddenly closed, and the short, portly figure of Madame (she bows, saying her house is most select) stands before us, somewhat nervous, as if she were yet undecided about our position in society.  She has seen some sixty summers, made her nefarious reputation in New York; there she keeps a joint establishment, which, she adds, has been kindly patronized by the members of several pumpkin-headed corporations.  Indeed, her princely tabernacle there was owned by one of these individuals, but in deference to his reputation she had the lease of a third party.  Of corporations in general has she the very highest opinion.

Madame Flamingo’s round, dapper figure, is set off with a glossy, black satin, made high at the neck, about which a plain white collar is arranged, corresponding nicely with the dash of snowy lace down the stomacher, and an embroidered buff apron, under which she every few minutes thrusts her fat, jewelled fingers.  Her face is pallid, her chin fat and dimpled, her artificial hair light brown, and lain smoothly over a low forehead, which is curiously contrasted with a jauntily-setting cap, the long strings of which flutter down her shoulders.

“If you please, gentlemen,” she says, “my house is highly respectable-highly respectable (don’t make strange of me tending my own door!) I assure you gentlemen.”  And Madame Flamingo’s eyes quicken, and she steps round us, now contemplating us suspiciously, then frisking her hands beneath her embroidered apron, which she successively flaunts.