istide grew bolder in his apostolate. He
complimented Mrs. Ducksmith to his face. He presented her daily with
flowers. He scarcely waited for the heavy man's back to be turned to
make love to her. If she did not believe that she was the most
beautiful, the most ravishing, the most delicate-souled woman in the
world, it was through no fault of Aristide. Mr. Ducksmith went his
pompous, unseeing way. At every stopping-place stacks of English
daily papers awaited him. Sometimes, while Aristide was showing them
the sights of a town--to which, by the way, he insisted on being
conducted--he would extract a newspaper from his pocket and read with
dull and dogged stupidity. Once Aristide caught him reading the
advertisements for cooks and housemaids. In these circumstances Mrs.
Ducksmith spiritually expanded at an alarming rate; and,
correspondingly, dwindled the progress of Mr. Ducksmith's sock.

They arrived at Perigueux, in Perigord, land of truffles, one morning,
in time for lunch. Towards the end of the meal the _maitre d'hotel_
helped them to great slabs of _pate de foie gras_, made in the
house--most of the hotel-keepers in Perigord make _pate de foie gras_,
both for home consumption and for exportation--and waited expectant of
their appreciation. He was not disappointed. Mr. Ducksmith, after a
hesitating glance at the first mouthful, swallowed it, greedily devoured
his slab, and, after pointing to his empty plate, said, solemnly:--

"_Plou._"

Like Oliver, he asked for more.

"_Tiens!_" thought Aristide, astounded. "Is he, too, developing a soul?"

But, alas! there were no signs of it when they went their dreary round
of the town in the usual ramshackle open cab. The cathedral of
Saint-Front, extolled by Aristide and restored by Abadie--a terrible
fellow who has capped with tops of pepper-castors every pre-Gothic
building in France--gave him no thrill; nor did the picturesque,
tumble-down ancient buildings on the banks of the Dordogne, nor the
delicate Renaissance facades in the cool, narrow Rue du Lys.

"We will now go back to the hotel," said Mr. Ducksmith.

"But have we seen it all?" asked his wife.

"By no means," said Aristide.

"We will go back to the hotel," repeated her husband, in his
expressionless tones. "I have seen enough of Perigueux."

This was final. They drove back to the hotel. Mr. Ducksmith, without a
word, went straight into the salon, leaving Aristide and his wife
standing in the vestibul