Half an hour passed, and Mr. Ducksmith made no reappearance from the salon. In the forlorn hope of a client Aristide went in after him. He found Mr. Ducksmith, glasses on nose, reading a newspaper, and a plump, black-haired lady, with an expressionless face, knitting a grey woollen sock. Why they should be spending their first morning--and a crisp, sunny morning, too--in Paris in the murky staleness of this awful little salon, Aristide could not imagine. As he entered, Mr. Ducksmith regarded him vacantly over the top of his gold-rimmed glasses. "I have looked in," said Aristide, with his ingratiating smile, "to see whether you are ready to go to the Madeleine." "Madeleine?" the lady inquired, softly, pausing in her knitting. "Madame," Aristide came forward, and, hand on heart, made her the lowest of bows. "Madame, have I the honour of speaking to Madame Ducksmith? Enchanted, madame, to make your acquaintance," he continued, after a grunt from Mr. Ducksmith had assured him of the correctness of his conjecture. "I am Monsieur Aristide Pujol, director of the Agence Pujol, and my poor services are absolutely at your disposal." He drew himself up, twisted his moustache, and met her eyes--they were rather sad and tired--with the roguish mockery of his own. She turned to her husband. "Are you thinking of going to the Madeleine, Bartholomew?" "I am, Henrietta," said he. "I have decided to do it. And I have also decided to put ourselves in the charge of this gentleman. Mrs. Ducksmith and I are accustomed to all the conveniences of travel--I may say that we are great travellers--and I leave it to you to make the necessary arrangements. I prefer to travel at so much per head per day." He spoke in a wheezy, solemn monotone, from which all elements of life and joy seemed to have been eliminated. His wife's voice, though softer in timbre, was likewise devoid of colour. "My husband finds that it saves us from responsibilities," she remarked. "And over-charges, and the necessity of learning foreign languages, which at our time of life would be difficult. During all our travels we have not been to Paris before, owing to the impossibility of finding a personally-conducted tour of an adequate class." "Then, my dear sir," cried Aristide, "it is Providence itself that has put you in the way of the Agence Pujol. I will now conduct you to the Madeleine without the least discomfort or danger." "Put on your hat, Henrietta," said Mr. Ducksmith, "while this gentleman and I discuss terms." Mrs. Ducksmith gathered up her knitting and retired, Aristide dashing to the door to open it for her. This gallantry surprised her ever so little, for a faint flush came into her cheek and the shadow of a smile into her eyes.