His audacious hand placed a deep crimson rose against her corsage, and he stood away at arm’s length, his head on one side, judging the effect.
“Magnificent! If madame would only do me the honour to wear it.”
Mrs. Ducksmith took the flower hesitatingly.
“I’m afraid my husband does not like colour,” she said.
“He must be taught,” cried Aristide. “You must teach him. I must teach him. Let us begin at once. Here is a pin.”
He held the pin delicately between finger and thumb, and controlled her with his roguish eyes. She took the pin and fixed the rose to her dress.
“I don’t know what Mr. Ducksmith will say.”
“What he ought to say, madame, is ‘Bountiful Providence, I thank Thee for giving me such a beautiful wife.’”
Mrs. Ducksmith blushed and, to conceal her face, bent it over her resumed knitting. She made woman’s time-honoured response.
“I don’t think you ought to say such things, Mr. Pujol.”