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unprepared for the atmosphere, the gaiety and sparkle of Parisian life. To actually see the Petit Palais and the Orangerie, and to actually stroll the boulevards, crossing the bridges over the Seine into narrow, winding side streets that seemed thronged with the ghosts of Renoir, Monet and Sisley -- it was all too intoxicating.

The Hotel de l'Universite turned out to be exactly as my friends had described it, quaint and charming. The man and wife who operated it, and their father who served as concierge, always seemed genuinely glad to see us as we came and went, even though neither I nor the girls could speak with them, and were constantly obliged to use our dictionaries. The furnishings in the rooms were French provincial, figured print drapes, yellow ormulu [[ormolu]]. The furniture in the tiny salon, I thought, was almost comical. But the atmosphere was so congenial that these minor matters could be overlooked.