“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 set the girl’s eyes dancing. After that he told some of the funny little stories which had brought him disaster at the academy. Mr. Smith, with jovial magnanimity, declared that he was the first Frenchman he had ever met with a sense of humour.
“But I thought, Baron,” said he, “that you lived all your life shut up in that old château of yours?”