"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, she wouldn't hesitate for an instant to engage her to look after the child in case it joined the Bingle collection. There were voluble protests in French from both Madame Rousseau and Rouquin, and then Monsieur Jean announced in English that the old servant was like a mother to Rouquin and that he would as soon think of cutting off his right hand as to allow her to go out of his life. Rouquin glared at him for this, and the shabby-genteel Jean had the audacity to close one eye slowly. Madame Rousseau's mother was permitted to remain in the bath-room, and no further reference was made to her. "Well, let's get down to business," said Mr. Bingle, presenting his forefinger to the babe for inspection. Monsieur l'Enfant promptly seized it and conveyed it toward his earnest mouth. "No, no!" cried Mr. Bingle reprovingly. "Mustn't do that. Naughty, naughty! The microbes will get you if you don't watch out. Dear me, what a strong little rascal he is! By the way, what is his name?" "It has been Napoleon," said the mother. "But he can be made to forget it, m'sieur, if you desire." "Napoleon Bingle," mused Mr. Bingle, and then sent a sharp, questioning glance to his wife. She gravely nodded her head. "Not at all bad. Ahem! Shall we return to the other room? Naturally there are a great many questions to be asked and answered. Rouquin, will you oblige me by getting a pad of paper and taking down all of the--er--statistics?"