"I
should have known. Have I no brain? Listen! I tap my head. Does it not
give out a hollow sound, as if entirely empty? Say yes, my dear sir. I
shall not be offended. To have misinterpreted the polite--Ah, but, it
is of no consequence. Pray proceed, sir." "Proceed?" muttered Mr.
Bingle, frowning. "There's nothing more to the quotation, Rouquin, so
far as I know. Merely 'love's labour lost,' no more. But I would like
to ask a question or two. Are the parents of this child quite
respectable people?" Rouquin rolled his eyes upward. "Utterly," he
said, with deep feeling in his voice.
"Healthy?"
"Parfaitment!"
"What does that mean?"
"Perfectly, my dear Mr. Bingle."
"Oh! And are they married?"
"Mon dieu!" cried Rouquin, turning scarlet. "Absolutely, sir--
incontestably."
"I mean, to each other."
"Monsieur jests," was all that Rouquin could say. He wiped his brow,
however.
"Well, when may we see the child? When can we talk it over with the
parents?"
"That is for you to say, sir."
"To-morrow afternoon?"
"I shall so arrange it, sir.
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