Mr. Bingle saw Monsieur Rouquin again. The excellent manager of the foreign exchange assured the vice-president that he could now guarantee to procure the most adorable of French infants at a moment's notice, an infant that he could personally recommend in every particular.

"Sir," said Monsieur Rouquin, "it is impossible to imagine a more perfect child, let alone to create one. I have seen thousands, millions of babies, M'sieur Bangle, but not one so—"

"Bingle," corrected the vice-president.

"It is my abominable, unpardonable dialect," deplored Rouquin, who spoke English without a flaw. "Millions of babes have I seen, but not one so wonderful as this one. It is a—ah—it is a perfect specimen of—"

"You say 'it,' Rouquin. Am I to understand that its gender is unknown to you?"

"No, no!" cried Rouquin. "To be sure I know the sex of this adorable infant. I know the parents—"

"What is it? A boy or a girl?"

Rouquin closed an eye slowly. "Ah, M'sieur Bang—Bingle, may I not leave the question of sex to the child itself? What could be more beautiful than to present to your notice a perfect example of humanity, without uttering a single word to aid you in your speculation as to the gender, and then to sit calmly back and relish the joy you will reveal when you find that you have guessed correctly the very first time, as the boys would say? That would be the magnificent compensation to me. You will need but one glance at this wonderful specimen. One glance will be sufficient. You will instantly exclaim: 'What a monstrous fine boy—or girl!' as the case may be. Ah, sir—"

"I must have a boy," said Mr. Bingle.

Monsieur Rouquin looked relieved. He permitted a roguish light to steal into his eyes. "I still implore you to keep your mind open, Mr. Bingle, until you have seen the child I have in mind. Permit me this little, silly, boyish pleasure, sir—the pleasure of hearing you exclaim—out of a clear sky, so to say—'Ah, what a monstrous fine—'"

"All right, Rouquin," broke in Mr. Bingle. "Only I warn you that if it isn't a boy, it will be a case of love's labour lost on your part."

"M'sieur, I beg your pardon," said Rouquin, a trifle stiffly. "Does
M'sieur mean to imply—to insinuate that—"

"Nothing of the kind," said Mr. Bingle hastily. "It's a saying of
Shakespeare, Rouquin. Of course, love's labour is never really lost.
It's a figure of speech."

"Ah!" said Monsieur Rouquin, smiting himself on the forehead. "I should have known. Have I no brain? Listen! I tap my head. Does it not give out a hollow sound, as if entirely empty? Say yes, my dear sir. I shall not be offended. To have misinterpreted the polite—Ah, but, it is of no consequence. Pray proceed, sir." "Proceed?" muttered Mr. Bingle, frowning. "There's nothing more to the quotation, Rouquin, so far as I know. Merely 'love's labour lost,' no more. But I would like to ask a question or two. Are the parents of this child quite respectable people?" Rouquin rolled his eyes upward. "Utterly," he said, with deep feeling in his voice.

"Healthy?"

"Parfaitment!"

"What does that mean?"

"Perfectly, my dear Mr. Bingle."

"Oh! And are they married?"

"Mon dieu!" cried Rouquin, turning scarlet. "Absolutely, sir—incontestably."

"I mean, to each other."

"Monsieur jests," was all that Rouquin could say. He wiped his brow, however.

"Well, when may we see the child? When can we talk it over with the parents?"

"That is for you to say, sir."

"To-morrow afternoon?"

"I shall so arrange it, sir. Will not you and Madame Bang—Bingle honour me with your presence at a little tea-room—quite an excellent and refined place that I know of—before we go to inspect the child? It will give me the greatest pleasure if—"

"See here, Rouquin, that's most kind of you, but I'd prefer to have you take tea with Mrs. Bingle and me. Do you know of a nice, but thoroughly typical French restaurant where we could—er—get a bit of the atmosphere, don't you know? We are figuring on taking a trip to Paris soon and we'd like to—well, you know what I mean? Quiet, respectable place, you know. Nothing rowdyish."

Rouquin's eyes sparkled. His joy was great. "Ah, I know of such a place. But it is not a tea-room, in the strict sense of the term. It is a cafe where one has the finest table d'hote dinner in all New York for one dollar per person, wine included. Ah, if Monsieur would only condescend to dine there, AFTER we have seen the child, I am sure—"

"I'll telephone you in the morning," said Mr. Bingle, his eyes gleaming. "I shall have to speak to Mrs. Bingle about it first."

It was left that they were to visit the infant and its utterly respectable parents at four on the following afternoon. Rouquin had already assured Mr. Bingle that only the direst necessity made it possible for the wretched father and mother to even THINK of giving up their greatest treasure, this marvellous infant. In fact, it was only because they loved the child so dearly that they were content to see it pass out of their lives. For, said Monsieur Rouquin, they were so poor and so proud that suicide was the only thing left for them in this terrific struggle with adversity, and what was to become of the child if they killed themselves? They would not murder their adored one, and, while it was quite possible for the father and mother to destroy themselves, one really couldn't expect a fifteen months old child to take its own life by involuntary starvation—which was unspeakable. And, said he, they couldn't consider suicide without first making sure that their beloved was safely provided for. After that—well, they could then go about it quite happily, if needs be. Mr. Bingle was deeply distressed.

Rouquin had quite a surprise for them when they called at the bank for him. As he settled himself gracefully in the seat beside Mrs. Bingle, he announced that he had arranged with the heart-sick parents to fetch the babe to his humble apartment at half-past four, where at least one could be sure of avoiding the unfriendly presence of a too-persistent rent-collector, to say nothing of the distressing odours of extreme poverty. Indeed, said Monsieur Rouquin, it was not improbable that they might find the excellent Rousseaus in the apartment on their arrival there, as he had given directions to the janitor to admit them without question. He couldn't bear the thought of poor little Madame Rousseau standing outside in the cold hall with that adorable infant in imminent peril of freezing to death because of insufficient apparel.

"Are they descendants of the great genre painter?" inquired Mrs.
Bingle. There was a small painting by the great Barbizon artist in the
Bingle drawing-room. She had been reading up on Rousseau, and Miss
Fairweather had told her how to pronounce genre.

"That I cannot affirm, Madame," said Rouquin, with infinite regret in his voice. "It is possible, even probable, that Monsieur Rousseau is a direct descendant, but I am not in a position to say so with authority. I shall make it a point to repeat your question to him."

"It would be most interesting to have a descendant of Rousseau in the same house with one of his masterpieces, and under the conditions we face, don't you think, Mr. Rouquin?" Mrs. Bingle had never been quite secure in her pronunciation of monsieur, so she avoided the word.

Monsieur Rouquin agreed that it would be amazingly interesting, and then went on to say that he had known Madame Rousseau while she was still petite Marie Vallamont, but his acquaintance with her husband was of short duration. In fact, he knew little about him except that his great grandfather had been beheaded at the time of the revolution, which was in itself sufficient proof that he was descended from the aristocracy if not the nobility of France.

"You are aware, of course," said he, "that only the aristocracy had their heads cut off during those eventful days."

"Oh, yes, indeed," said both Mr. and Mrs. Bingle so promptly that Monsieur Rouquin at once changed the subject. He realised that they knew quite as much if not more of French history than he.

As he had suspected, the Rousseaus were awaiting them in the apartment. They were very nice looking young people, rather shabbily attired in garments which, though clearly the cast-off apparel of more prosperous owners, were still neat and remotely fashionable. Madame Rousseau was quite a pretty woman, with a soft, restrained voice and a tendency to say "Oui, Madame," with great frequency and politeness. Her husband, poor as he was, sustained the credit of aristocracy by smoking innumerable cigarettes, with which he appeared to be most plentifully supplied. "You found my cigarettes, I see. That is good," said Rouquin, shortly after the introductions. He spoke somewhat tartly, as if an idea had just occurred to him. He shot a furtive glance at Mr. Bingle as he made the remark.

"Oh, yes," said Rousseau, after an instant's hesitation. "I beg
Madame's pardon. Does the smoking annoy?"

"Not at all," said Mrs. Bingle. "I am used to it. Mr. Bingle smokes a pipe."

"Well, where is the baby?" said Mr. Bingle, declining the cigarette which Rousseau proffered in the absence of hospitality on Monsieur Rouquin's part.

"Oh," said Madame Rousseau, "it sleeps. I have put it into Monsieur
Raoul's warm bed. Such a cruelty it would be to awake the baby,
M'sieur."

"I think I'd like to see what it looks like while asleep, Madame," said Bingle, with the air of a shrewd bargainer. "You see, I've become quite an expert on babies. I don't believe there is a better judge of—I beg your pardon. I forgot to inquire if my English is quite intelligible. Do you follow me?"

"Your English is perfect, M'sieur," she assured him, brightly. "May I say that it surprises me. I have been in your America for five years and I have not before this hour heard an American speak the English language so perfectly—"

"Ahem!" coughed Rouquin, and Madame Rousseau completed her estimate of Mr. 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. She whipped the blankets off the bed. There was no baby. A second later she darted through a door on the opposite side of the room, slamming it violently behind her. Monsieur Rousseau started to laugh but cut it short and sputtered Mon dieu three or four times in a choked voice.

"What does all this mean?" demanded Mr. Bingle. "God bless my soul!"

In the meantime, Madame Rousseau was confronting a motherly looking person in Monsieur Rouquin's bath-room, down the little hall. The motherly looking person was holding a fat, yellow-headed baby on her lap and to the mouth of the fat, yellow-headed baby was attached the business end of a half-emptied milk-bottle.

The conversation was in whispered French, and of exceeding bitterness on one side. It is not necessary to repeat what was said. It is only necessary to explain that the motherly looking person was the infant's grandmother—in fact the mother of Madame Rousseau. From certain disjointed explanatory scraps that fell from the motherly person's lips it might have been divined that the baby awoke some time before the arrival of the great philanthropist, and that grandmere deemed it to be the part of wisdom to feed it thoroughly before submitting it for inspection. No one takes to a howling brat, she protested. Besides, what was she there for if not to look after the child of her ungrateful, selfish daughter who had not the slightest feeling of—But, all this time, Madame Rousseau was informing her mother that she was a meddlesome, stupid old blunderer, and that the fat was in the fire. She snatched the baby from the old lady's arms. The bottle crashed to the tile floor and painted a section of it white, its pristine hue. The infant was too surprised to cry. It maintained an open-mouthed silence even as its mother whisked out of the bath-room and brought the door to with a bang, leaving grandmere in the centre of a pool of white, still whispering shrilly that even though a wise father might by chance know his own son, a mother never could hope to know her own daughter.

Messieurs Rouquin and Rousseau were talking loudly, rapidly and very excitedly to each other—in French, of course—when Madame burst into the room with the infant. Mr. and Mrs. Bingle, still staring at the unoccupied bed, had nothing but blank bewilderment in their honest faces.

"Ah!" shouted the two Frenchmen joyously.

"That stupid servant!" squealed Madame Rousseau, hugging the baby to her breast in frantic relief. "Oh, what a fright I have had. Take the baby, Jean. Mon dieu! Do not let it fall! Oh, m'sieur, madame, you will never know how I was anguished. I thought I had lost my darling, my adored one. The black-hand what-you-call-him—non, non, the kidnapper. My baby! Jean, Jean, do not let it out of your sight again—never, do you hear. Now, madame, will you not be kind enough to look at my baby? Come, m'sieur, to the window. Jean, pull up the shade."

Jean almost dropped his precious burden in his eagerness to do as he was bidden, and might actually have done so but for the timely intervention of Monsieur Rouquin, who sprang to the window and sent the shade up with a crash that caused Mrs. Bingle to jump with alarm.

"See!" shouted Rouquin, stepping back and pointing proudly at the baby.

"God bless my soul!" exclaimed Mr. Bingle.

"Oh, the darling!" cried his wife, and tried at once to take the sunny-faced youngster from the arms of Monsieur Jean. But Jean held on very tightly, apparently awaiting orders. It may have been the unusual fervour of the father's clasp that caused the child to whimper, or it may have been that it never had seen such an expression in its parent's face before. At any rate, as it looked up into Jean's swarthy countenance it began to cry; where upon Madame Rousseau exclaimed shrilly:

"Can't you see, Jean? Madame would hold my baby to her breast. Quick!
You big simpleton! Ah, madame, my poor Jean is so sad, so
broken-hearted over the thought of losing his child that he—There!
See! See the lovely smile once more?"

It was true that the instant Mrs. Bingle received the plump wriggler in her arms, the beaming smile was restored. Jean moved quickly into the background, and turned his miserable face away from the scene.

The Rousseau baby WAS adorable, there could be no mistake about that. In previous experiences, Mr. and Mrs. Bingle had encountered half-starved, unhappy, whining infants. This was the first time they had come upon a lusty, apparently over-fed specimen, and they were at once filled with the joy of covetousness. 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.

Madame Rousseau could not get over the despicable behaviour of Rouquin's servant. She kept on berating the creature and advising Rouquin to dismiss her, until at last Mrs. Bingle announced that the poor thing undoubtedly had acted for the best and out of the goodness of her heart. She also said that she would like to see the woman.

Monsieur Rouquin being of a mind to dismiss the presumptuous domestic, Mrs. Bingle blandly declared that, if her references were all as good as the one Madame Rousseau was giving her, s............