“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.
“She wants to see all the sights, the Louvre, the Morgue, the Cathedral of What’s-its-name that you’ve got here. I’ve got to go round, too. Pleases her and don’t hurt me. You must tote us about. We’ll have a cab, old girl, as you can’t do much walking, and good old Pujol will come with us.”