I commenced reading.

Just as the stilly hum, the embowering shade, the warm, lonely calm of my retreat were beginning to steal meaning from the page, vision from my eyes, and to lure me along the track of reverie, down into some deep dell of dreamland--just then, the sharpest ring of the street-door bell to which that much-tried instrument had ever thrilled, snatched me back to consciousness.
Now the bell had been ringing all the morning, as workmen, or servants, or _coiffeurs_, or _tailleuses_, went and came on their several errands.

Moreover, there was good reason to expect it would ring all the afternoon, since about one hundred externes were yet to arrive in carriages or fiacres: nor could it be expected to rest during the evening, when parents and friends would gather thronging to the play.
Under these circumstances, a ring--even a sharp ring--was a matter of course: yet this particular peal had an accent of its own, which chased my dream, and startled my book from my knee.
I was stooping to pick up this last, when--firm, fast, straight--right on through vestibule--along corridor, across carre, through first division, second division, grand salle--strode a step, quick, regular, intent.

The closed door of the first classe--my sanctuary--offered no obstacle; it burst open, and a paletot and a bonnet grec filled the void; also two eyes first vaguely struck upon, and then hungrily dived into me.
"C'est cela!" said a voice.

"Je la connais: c'est l'Anglaise.