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.