"Ah, bah, brother Jacques!" exclaimed Madame Roquet, impatiently,
"don't give us that old story of the miller and the gray colt, this
evening! We've all heard it a hundred times already. Sing us a song
instead, _mon ami_!"

"I shall be happy to sing, sister Marie," replied Monsieur Robineau,
with somewhat husky dignity, "when I have finished my story. You may
have heard the story before. So may André--so may Suzette--so may my
wife. I admit it. But these gentlemen--these gentlemen who have never
heard it, and who have done me the honor...."

"Not to listen to a word of it," said Madame Robineau, sharply. "There,
you are answered, husband. Drink your punch, and hold your tongue."

Monsieur Robineau waved his hand majestically, and assumed a
Parliamentary air.

"Madame Robineau," he said, getting more and more husky, "be so obliging
as to wait till I ask for your advice. With regard to drinking my punch,
I have drunk it--" and here he again stared down into the bottom of his
glass, which was again empty--"and with regard to holding my tongue,
that is my business, and--and...."

"Monsieur Robineau," said Dalrymple, "allow me to offer you some more
punch."

"Not another drop, Jacques," said Madame, sternly. "You have had too
much already."