“Do go, dear lady; your charming daughter is here to do the honors, you know.” “Since you are good enough to excuse me--I have something to attend to.” “Would you like me to come and help you?” inquired Madame Dufournelle; “dispose of me.” “Oh, no! you are too kind; I don’t need any help for what I have to do; I will return in a moment.” And the mistress of the house was once more on the point of leaving the room, when the door opened again to admit two other guests, a gentleman and a lady, both of mature years, who came forward smiling pleasantly at the company. “Monsieur and Mademoiselle Mangeot!” exclaimed Madame Glumeau, who was obliged to step back as she curtsied, because the newcomers came straight toward her. “How very good of you to come early!” “Why, you said five o’clock, and it is just about to strike the hour,” replied the gentleman, bowing low. “I am as exact as a pendulum; I hurried my sister who, I thought, would never finish arranging her hair; I always dread being late.” “Yes, my brother wanted to ride,” said Mademoiselle Mangeot, “but I reminded him that we should arrive sooner on foot than in an omnibus.--Will you allow me to wish you a happy birthday, Monsieur Glumeau?” And the middle-aged damsel, producing a pretty little bouquet of _pompon_ roses, which she had under her shawl, presented it to Glumeau, who smelt it, making a peculiar face, and replied: “Really, mademoiselle, you overwhelm me--_pompon_ roses!” “You are fond of them, I believe?” “Oh, yes! I am very fond of them--but not too hot.” “What! are there such things as hot bouquets?” “Oh! I beg pardon, mademoiselle, I made a mistake; I meant to say that it would give me great pleasure to take it now.” “Why, take it then, monsieur; as you see, I am offering it to you for that purpose.” “To be sure--excuse me--I am absent-minded; I do take it--that is to say, yes, I accept these lovely roses.” “You take them awkwardly; you will prick yourself; you should let me put them in myself.” “Put them where, pray?” “Why, in your buttonhole.” “Sapristi! how annoyed I am that I didn’t bring a bouquet!” repeated stout Dufournelle; and Mademoiselle Eolinde, overhearing him, muttered between her teeth: “He s--s--says that every year, but he n--n--never brings one.” “My dear Monsieur Glumeau,” said Monsieur Mangeot, stepping forward to shake hands with the master of the house, who seemed determined to keep his hands pressed against his abdomen, “pray accept my good wishes also, and may I be able to offer them again a hundred years hence.--That’s not a new idea, but it’s always good!--And the dear boy, the charming Astianax, where is he, pray?” “I can’t imagine!” said Madame Glumeau; “to think of his not being here yet--to-day of all days! Really, I am beginning to be anxious.” “You know, mamma, that my b--b--brother was going to order a b--b--bouquet full of meaning; no d--d-doubt--no doubt that is what is k--k--keeping him.”