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?”