So I set forth in high spirits. Everything was going beautifully it seemed; and when a few moments later I happened on Monsieur Bébérose issuing from his apartment, I beamed on him, and he beamed in return. He was dressed with more care than usual; a hemispherical figure in a frock coat and tall hat. He was anxiously trying to get a new pair of lavender kid gloves on his podgy hands without splitting them, and the imperial that gave distinction to his series of crisp chins had been trimmed and brilliantined. Plainly Monsieur Bébérose had dressed for no ordinary occasion, and chaffingly I told him so.
“Ah, no! Ah, no!” he admitted coyly. “I go to give a déjeûner to my future belle-mère at the Café Anglais.”
“Ha! Who is it? Juliette or Lucille?”
“Oh, neither,” he said, with the archness of a baby elephant. “It is a new one. I think I will be satisfied this time.”
“Is she a widow?”
“No; but her mother is; and an old friend of mine.”
“Is she pretty?”
“Pretty; only twenty and with some money.”
“Ah! young, charming and with a comfortable dot; what could be more delightful? Allow me to congratulate you, my friend. How you must dream of her!”
“Truly, yes; day and night. She is adorable. She melts in the mouth.”