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