"With another husband," he stammered out. Very simply and naturally, and without the slightest embarrassment, she said, laughing: "Oh, dear no! No, I think the husband is quite nice." M. de Rueille did not answer. He could not help feeling some emotion, in spite of himself, at this idea that Bijou might have cared for him. It seemed to him that the evening air was delicious, and never had the setting sun, which was sinking slowly like a ball of flame into the Loire, appeared more brilliant to him. The little gig was so narrow, that, with every oscillation, his elbow touched the young girl's arm, whilst her soft fair hair, escaping from her large straw hat, kept brushing against his cheek, which began to burn. Bijou noticed his absent-mindedness. "It seems to me," she said, laughing, "that you are not listening much to the description of my ideal." "Oh, yes!" "Oh, no!--by the bye, have we done all the errands?" She took out of her pocket a long list, which she began to read: "_Ice. Cakes. Fruit. Fish. The Dubuissons. Speak to the butcher. Pink gauze. Mere Rafut. Hat. Pierrot's books. Henry's cartridges (16)._" "What's that?" asked M. de Rueille, who was looking at the list. "Henry has commissioned you to get his cartridges instead of telling me to get them?" "Yes; the time before last when he asked you, you forgot them; and last time you brought him number twelve cartridges, and his are number sixteen; therefore, he preferred--" "Ah! I can understand that; but they do take advantage of you--and the children too have taken advantage. '_Balloon for Marcel, pencils for Robert_;' Fred is the only one who has not given you any commissions. You need not despair though, he is only three years old; he will begin next year." "He did not give me any commissions, but I have brought him a picture book--'Puss in Boots.' He adores cats, so that will amuse him." "How delicious you are!" "Delicious! Is that saying enough? Could you not find something rather more eulogistic? Let us see--try now!" She was still glancing down the list; and Paul de Rueille pointed with the handle of his whip to a line written in pencil: "What's that?--'_Tell grandmamma about La Noriniere!_'" "Why, I met the Juzencourts, and they said I was to be sure to tell grandmamma that 'The Noriniere' is to be inhabited." "Ah, Clagny has sold it?" "No; he is coming back to it. It appears that he is coming every summer." "Ah, so much the better. Grandmamma will be very glad of that." "Yes, she likes him very much. I do not know him, this M. de Clagny, but I have often heard about him." "Don't you remember seeing him a long time ago?" "Why, no!" "Well, he was your godfather, anyhow!" "You are dreaming! Uncle Alexis is my godfather."