There was Mrs.
Follingsbee,--a tall, handsome, dark-eyed, dark-haired, dashing woman, French dressed from the tip of her lace parasol to the toe of her boot.

There was Mademoiselle Therese, the French maid, an inexpressibly fine lady; and there was _la petite_ Marie, Mrs.
Follingsbee's three-year-old hopeful, a lean, bright-eyed little thing, with a great scarlet bow on her back that made her look like a walking butterfly.

On the whole, the tableau of arrival was so impressive, that Bridget and Annie, Rosa and all the kitchen cabinet, were in a breathless state of excitement.
"How do I find you, _ma chere_ ?" said Mrs.Follingsbee, folding Lillie rapturously to her breast.

"I've been just dying to see you! How lovely every thing looks! Oh, _ciel_! how like dear Paris!" she said, as she was conducted into the parlor, and sunk upon the sofa.
"Pretty well done, too, for America!" said Mr.Follingsbee, gazing round, and settling his collar.

Mr.Follingsbee was one of the class of returned travellers who always speak condescendingly of any thing American; as, "so-so," or "tolerable," or "pretty fair,"-- a considerateness which goes a long way towards keeping up the spirits of the country.
"I say, Dick," said his lady, "have you seen to the bags and wraps ?" "All right, madam." "And my basket of medicines and the books ?" "O.K.," replied Dick, sententiously.
"Oh! how often must I tell you not to use those odious slang terms ?" said his wife, reprovingly.
"Oh! Mrs.John Seymour knows _me_ of old," said Mr.Follingsbee, winking facetiously at Lillie.