Bingle's English by spreading her hands in a gesture which
signified utter inability to express herself in words. "Shall we peep
into my bedroom?" went on the foreign exchange manager.
"Said the spider to the fly," came quite distinctly from Monsieur
Rousseau.
"Remember," cautioned Rouquin, his hand on the door-knob, "you are to
guess what it is, Mr. Bingle."
"I suppose I'm to have two guesses," said Mr. Single, with a chuckle.
"Certainly," said Rouquin. "Provided your first guess is wrong."
Stealthily the group entered the bedroom of Monsieur Rouquin. The
window shades were down. The room was quite dark. On the bed was a
dimly distinguishable heap.
"Sh!" whispered Madame Rousseau, putting a finger to her lips--which
in the light of the sun were singularly red and unstarved.
"Sh!" echoed her husband.
"Sh!" said Rouquin.
On tip-toe they all advanced upon the heap, now resolved into a pile
of pink blankets. Mr. Bingle leaned far over the heap. Then he put on
his spectacles.
"Where is it?" he whispered.
"Mon dieu!" gulped the young mother, in consternation.
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