So Aristide attired himself in his best, which included a white tie and a pair of nearly new brown boots--a long task, as he found that his valise had been spirited away and its contents, including the white tie of ceremony (he had but one), hidden in unexpected drawers and wardrobes--and eventually went downstairs into the drawing-room. There he found Miss Christabel and, warming himself on the hearthrug, a bald-headed, beefy-faced Briton, with little pig's eyes and a hearty manner, attired in a dinner-suit. "My dear fellow," said this personage, with outstretched hand, "I'm delighted to have you here. I've heard so much about you; and my little girl has been singing your praises." "Mademoiselle is too kind," said Aristide. "You must take us as you find us," said Mr. Smith. "We're just ordinary folk, but I can give you a good bottle of wine and a good cigar--it's only in England, you know, that you can get champagne fit to drink and cigars fit to smoke--and I can give you a glimpse of a modest English home. I believe you haven't a word for it in French." "_Ma foi_, no," said Aristide, who had once or twice before heard this lunatic charge brought against his country. "In France the men all live in cafés, the children are all put out to nurse, and the women, saving the respect of mademoiselle--well, the less said about them the better." "England is the only place, isn't it?" Mr. Smith declared, heartily. "I don't say that Paris hasn't its points. But after all--the Moulin Rouge and the Folies Bergères and that sort of thing soon pall, you know--soon pall." "Yet Paris has its serious side," argued Aristide. "There is always the tomb of Napoleon." "Papa will never take me to Paris," sighed the girl. "You shall go there on your honeymoon," said Mr. Smith. Dinner was announced. Aristide gave his arm to Miss Christabel, and proud not only of his partner, but also of his frock-coat, white tie, and shiny brown boots, strutted into the dining-room. The host sat at the end of the beautifully set table, his daughter on his right, Aristide on his left. The meal began gaily. The kind Mr. Smith was in the best of humours. "And how is our dear old friend, Jules Dancourt?" he asked. "_Tiens!_" said Aristide, to himself, "we have a dear friend Jules Dancourt. Wonderfully well," he replied at a venture, "but he suffers terribly at times from the gout." "So do I, confound it!" said Mr. Smith, drinking sherry. "You and the good Jules were always sympathetic," said Aristide. "Ah! he has spoken to me so often about you, the tears in his eyes." "Men cry, my dear, in France," Mr. Smith explained. "They also kiss each other."