"And the angels' clothes are always white," added Henri.

Madame Patoux said nothing, but passed a second helping of soup all
round. Papa Patoux smiled blandly on his offspring.

"Just so," he averred--"Blue and white are the colours of the sky,
my little ones,--and Our Lady and the angels live in the sky!"

"I wonder where?" muttered Henri with his mouth half full. "The sky
is nothing but miles and miles of air, and in the air there are
millions and millions of planets turning round and round, larger
than our world,--ever so much larger,--and nobody knows which is the
largest of them all!"

"It is as thou sayest, my son," said Patoux confidently--"Nobody
knows which is the largest of them all, but whichever it may be,
that largest of them all belongs to Our Lady and the angels."

Henri looked at Babette, but Babette was munching watercress busily,
and did not return his enquiring glances. Papa Patoux, quite
satisfied with his own reasoning, continued his supper in an amiable
state of mind.

"What didst thou serve to Monseigneur, my little one?" he asked his
wife with a coaxing and caressing air, as though she were some
delicate and dainty sylph of the woodlands, instead of being the
lady of massive proportions which she undoubtedly was,--"Something
of delicacy and fine flavour, doubtless?"