Bingle saw Monsieur Rouquin again. The excellent manager of the
foreign exchange assured the vice-president that he could now
guarantee to procure the most adorable of French infants at a moment's
notice, an infant that he could personally recommend in every
particular.
"Sir," said Monsieur Rouquin, "it is impossible to imagine a more
perfect child, let alone to create one. I have seen thousands,
millions of babies, M'sieur Bangle, but not one so--"
"Bingle," corrected the vice-president.
"It is my abominable, unpardonable dialect," deplored Rouquin, who
spoke English without a flaw. "Millions of babes have I seen, but not
one so wonderful as this one. It is a--ah--it is a perfect specimen
of--"
"You say 'it,' Rouquin. Am I to understand that its gender is unknown
to you?"
"No, no!" cried Rouquin. "To be sure I know the sex of this adorable
infant. I know the parents--"
"What is it? A boy or a girl?"
Rouquin closed an eye slowly. "Ah, M'sieur Bang--Bingle, may I not
leave the question of sex to the child itself? What could be more
beautiful than to present to your notice a perfect example of
humanity, without uttering a single word to aid you in your
speculation as to the gender, and then to sit calmly back and relish
the joy you will reveal when you find that you have guessed correctly
the very first time, as the boys would say? That would be the
magnificent compensation to me.
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