ontrived to invest them with an air of
hopeless dowdiness. At her bosom she wore a great brooch, containing
intertwined locks of a grandfather and grandmother long since defunct.
Her mind was as drearily equipped as her person. She had a vague idea
that they were travelling in France; but if Aristide had told her that
it was Japan she would have meekly accepted the information. She had no
opinions. Still she was a woman, and Aristide, firm in his conviction
that when it comes to love-making all women are the same, proceeded
forthwith to make love to her.

"Madame," said he, one morning--she was knitting in the vestibule of the
Hotel du Faisan at Tours, Mr. Ducksmith being engaged, as usual, in the
salon with his newspapers--"how much more charming that beautiful grey
dress would be if it had a spot of colour."

His audacious hand placed a deep crimson rose against her corsage, and
he stood away at arm's length, his head on one side, judging the effect.

"Magnificent! If madame would only do me the honour to wear it."

Mrs. Ducksmith took the flower hesitatingly.

"I'm afraid my husband does not like colour," she said.

"He must be taught," cried Aristide. "You must teach him. I must teach
him. Let us begin at once. Here is a pin."

He held the pin delicately between finger and thumb, and controlled her
with his roguish eyes. She took the pin and fixed the rose to her dress.

"I don't know what Mr. Ducksmith will say."

"What he ought to say, madame, is 'Bountiful Providence, I thank Thee
for giving me such a beautiful wife.'"

Mrs. Ducksmith blushed and, to conceal her face, bent it over her
resumed knitting. She made woman's time-honoured response.

"I don't think you ought to say such things, Mr. Pujol."

"Ah, madame," said he, lowering his voice; "I have tried not to; but,
_que voulez-vous_, it was stronger than I. When I see you going about
like a little grey mouse"--the lady weighed at least twelve stone--"you,
who ought to be ravishing the eyes of mankind, I feel indignation
here"--he thumped his chest; "my Provencal heart is stirred. It is
enough to make one weep."

"I don't quite understand you, Mr. Pujol," she said, dropping stitches
recklessly.

"Ah, madame," he whispered--and the rascal's whisper on such occasions
could be very seductive--"that I will never believe."

"I am too old to dress myself up in fine clothes," she murmured.

"That's an illusion," said he, with a wide-flung gesture, "