Thick yellow curls, bright blue
eyes, and cheeks that would have shamed the peach's bloom--and a
nearly completed row of tiny white teeth--such was the Rousseau
applicant at first glance. Moreover, its clothing was clean, soft and
sweet-smelling of fabrics that do not often find their way into the
houses of the poverty-stricken.
"Wait!" exclaimed Rouquin, fairly dancing with exuberant joy. "Wait!
Now, Mr. Bingle--now for the guess, sir. I give you but one guess.
What is it--a boy or a girl?"
Madame Rousseau clasped her hands ecstatically upon her bosom. "Oh, as
if my baby could be anything but--"
"Sh!" hissed the master of ceremonies.
So much whirlwind excitement as all this, so much radiant joy over the
disposal of a baby, had never entered into any previous negotiation,
and Mr. Bingle was quite carried away by the novelty of the situation.
Never before had the ceremony resolved itself into an enigma, a
puzzle, so to speak, in which it was his privilege to make one guess.
"It's a boy," said he, with conviction, whereupon the mother, the
father and Monsieur Rouquin filled the room with joyous exclamations
and the baby, imitative little beggar that he was, crowed with
delight.
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