You will need but one glance at this
wonderful specimen. One glance will be sufficient. You will instantly
exclaim: 'What a monstrous fine boy--or girl!' as the case may be.
Ah, sir--"
"I must have a boy," said Mr. Bingle.
Monsieur Rouquin looked relieved. He permitted a roguish light to
steal into his eyes. "I still implore you to keep your mind open, Mr.
Bingle, until you have seen the child I have in mind. Permit me this
little, silly, boyish pleasure, sir--the pleasure of hearing you
exclaim--out of a clear sky, so to say--'Ah, what a monstrous fine--'"
"All right, Rouquin," broke in Mr. Bingle. "Only I warn you that if it
isn't a boy, it will be a case of love's labour lost on your part."
"M'sieur, I beg your pardon," said Rouquin, a trifle stiffly. "Does
M'sieur mean to imply--to insinuate that--"
"Nothing of the kind," said Mr. Bingle hastily. "It's a saying of
Shakespeare, Rouquin. Of course, love's labour is never really lost.
It's a figure of speech."
"Ah!" said Monsieur Rouquin, smiting himself on the forehead.
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