"M'sieur, I beg your pardon," said Rouquin, a trifle stiffly. "Does
M'sieur mean to imply--to insinuate that--"

"Nothing of the kind," said Mr. Bingle hastily. "It's a saying of
Shakespeare, Rouquin. Of course, love's labour is never really lost.
It's a figure of speech."

"Ah!" said Monsieur Rouquin, smiting himself on the forehead. "I
should have known. Have I no brain? Listen! I tap my head. Does it not
give out a hollow sound, as if entirely empty? Say yes, my dear sir. I
shall not be offended. To have misinterpreted the polite--Ah, but, it
is of no consequence. Pray proceed, sir." "Proceed?" muttered Mr.
Bingle, frowning. "There's nothing more to the quotation, Rouquin, so
far as I know. Merely 'love's labour lost,' no more. But I would like
to ask a question or two. Are the parents of this child quite
respectable people?" Rouquin rolled his eyes upward. "Utterly," he
said, with deep feeling in his voice.

"Healthy?"

"Parfaitment!"

"What does that mean?"

"Perfectly, my dear Mr. Bingle."

"Oh! And are they married?"

"Mon dieu!" cried Rouquin, turning scarlet. "Absolutely, sir--
incontestably."