As the soulless days went by this problem grew to be Aristide's main solicitude. He felt strangled, choked, borne down by an intolerable weight. What could he do to stir their vitality? Should he fire off pistols behind them, just to see them jump? But would they jump? Would not Mr. Ducksmith merely turn his rabbit-eyes, set in their bloodhound sockets, vacantly on him, and assume that the detonations were part of the tour's programme? Could he not fill him up with conflicting alcohols, and see what inebriety would do for him? But Mr. Ducksmith declined insidious potations. He drank only at meal-times, and sparingly. Aristide prayed that some Thaïs might come along, cast her spell upon him, and induce him to wink. He himself was powerless. His raciest stories fell on dull ears; none of his jokes called forth a smile. At last, having taken them to nearly all the historic châteaux of Touraine, without eliciting one cry of admiration, he gave Mr. Ducksmith up in despair and devoted his attention to the lady. Mrs. Ducksmith parted her smooth black hair in the middle and fastened it in a knob at the back of her head. Her clothes were good and new, but some desolate dressmaker had contrived to invest them with an air of hopeless dowdiness. At her bosom she wore a great brooch, containing intertwined locks of a grandfather and grandmother long since defunct. Her mind was as drearily equipped as her person. She had a vague idea that they were travelling in France; but if Aristide had told her that it was Japan she would have meekly accepted the information. She had no opinions. Still she was a woman, and Aristide, firm in his conviction that when it comes to love-making all women are the same, proceeded forthwith to make love to her. "Madame," said he, one morning--she was knitting in the vestibule of the Hôtel du Faisan at Tours, Mr. Ducksmith being engaged, as usual, in the salon with his newspapers--"how much more charming that beautiful grey dress would be if it had a spot of colour." His audacious hand placed a deep crimson rose against her corsage, and he stood away at arm's length, his head on one side, judging the effect. "Magnificent! If madame would only do me the honour to wear it." Mrs. Ducksmith took the flower hesitatingly. "I'm afraid my husband does not like colour," she said. "He must be taught," cried Aristide. "You must teach him. I must teach him. Let us begin at once. Here is a pin." He held the pin delicately between finger and thumb, and controlled her with his roguish eyes. She took the pin and fixed the rose to her dress. "I don't know what Mr. Ducksmith will say." "What he ought to say, madame, is 'Bountiful Providence, I thank Thee for giving me such a beautiful wife.'" Mrs. Ducksmith blushed and, to conceal her face, bent it over her resumed knitting. She made woman's time-honoured response. "I don't think you ought to say such things, Mr. Pujol."