onc!_" cried Aristide. "You love her, your beautiful
Finnish orphan brought up in France and romantically met in London, with
the adorable name?"

"Oh, that's all right," said the easy Batterby, lifting his half-emptied
glass. "Here's luck!"

"Ah--no!" said Aristide, leaning forward and clinking his wineglass
against the other's tumbler. "Here is to madame."

When they returned to the vestibule they found Mrs. Batterby patiently
awaiting her lord. She rose from her seat at the approach of the two
men, a fragile flower of a girl, about three-and-twenty, pale as a lily,
with exquisite though rather large features, and with eyes of the blue
of the _pervenche_ (in deference to Aristide I use the French name),
which seemed to smile trustfully through perpetual tears. She was
dressed in pale, shadowy blue--graceful, impalpable, like the smoke,
said Aristide, curling upwards from a cigarette.

"Reggie has spoken of you many times, monsieur," said Fleurette, after
the introduction had been effected.

Aristide was touched. "Fancy him remembering me! _Ce bon vieux
Reginald._ Madame," said he, "your husband is the best fellow in the
world."

"Feed him with sugar and he won't bite," said Batterby; whereat they all
laughed, as if it had been a very good joke.

"Well, what about this Paris of yours?" he asked, after a while. "The
missus knows as little of it as I do."

"Really?" asked Aristide.

"I lived all my life in Brest before I went to England," she said,
modestly.

"She wants to see all the sights, the Louvre, the Morgue, the Cathedral
of What's-its-name that you've got here. I've got to go round, too.
Pleases her and don't hurt me. You must tote us about. We'll have a cab,
old girl, as you can't do much walking, and good old Pujol will come
with us."

"But that is ideal!" cried Aristide, flying to the door to order the
cab; but before he could reach it he was stopped by three or four
waiting tourists, who pointed, some to the clock, some to the wagonette
standing outside, and asked the director when the personally-conducted
party was to start. Aristide, who had totally forgotten the
responsibilities attached to the directorship of the Agence Pujol and,
but for this reminder, would have blissfully left his sheep to err and
stray over Paris by themselves, returned crestfallen to his friends and
explained the situation.

"But we'll join the party," said the cheery Batterby. "The more the
merrier--good old bean-f