"Missus? Your wife? You are married, my dear Reginald?" Aristide leaped, in his unexpected fashion, from his chair and almost embraced him. "Ah, but you are happy, you are lucky. It was always like that. You open your mouth and the larks fall ready roasted into it! My congratulations. And she is here, in this hotel, your wife? Tell me about her." Batterby lit his cigar. "She's nothing to write home about," he said, modestly. "She's French." "French? No--you don't say so!" exclaimed Aristide, in ecstasy. "Well, she was brought up in France from her childhood, but her parents were Finns. Funny place for people to come from--Finland--isn't it? You could never expect it--might just as well think of 'em coming from Lapland. She's an orphan. I met her in London." "But that's romantic! And she is young, pretty?" "Oh, yes; in a way," said the proprietary Briton. "And her name?" "Oh, she has a fool name--Fleurette. I wanted to call her Flossie, but she didn't like it." "I should think not," said Aristide. "Fleurette is an adorable name." "I suppose it's right enough," said Batterby. "But if I want to call her good old Flossie, why should she object? You married, old man? No? Well, wait till you are. You think women are angels all wrapped up in feathers and wings beneath their toggery, don't you? Well, they're just blooming porcupines, all bristling with objections." "_Mais, allons, donc!_" cried Aristide. "You love her, your beautiful Finnish orphan brought up in France and romantically met in London, with the adorable name?" "Oh, that's all right," said the easy Batterby, lifting his half-emptied glass. "Here's luck!" "Ah--no!" said Aristide, leaning forward and clinking his wineglass against the other's tumbler. "Here is to madame." When they returned to the vestibule they found Mrs. Batterby patiently awaiting her lord. She rose from her seat at the approach of the two men, a fragile flower of a girl, about three-and-twenty, pale as a lily, with exquisite though rather large features, and with eyes of the blue of the _pervenche_ (in deference to Aristide I use the French name), which seemed to smile trustfully through perpetual tears. She was dressed in pale, shadowy blue--graceful, impalpable, like the smoke, said Aristide, curling upwards from a cigarette. "Reggie has spoken of you many times, monsieur," said Fleurette, after the introduction had been effected. Aristide was touched. "Fancy him remembering me! _Ce bon vieux Reginald._ Madame," said he, "your husband is the best fellow in the world." "Feed him with sugar and he won't bite," said Batterby; whereat they all laughed, as if it had been a very good joke. "Well, what about this Paris of yours?" he asked, after a while. "The missus knows as little of it as I do." "Really?" asked Aristide. "I lived all my life in Brest before I went to England," she said, modestly.