iss 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 cafes, 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 Bergeres 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."

"_Ah, mais c'est un beau pays, mademoiselle!_" cried Aristide, and he
began to talk of France and to draw pictures of his country which