"I mean, to each other."

"Monsieur jests," was all that Rouquin could say. He wiped his brow,
however.

"Well, when may we see the child? When can we talk it over with the
parents?"

"That is for you to say, sir."

"To-morrow afternoon?"

"I shall so arrange it, sir. Will not you and Madame Bang--Bingle
honour me with your presence at a little tea-room--quite an excellent
and refined place that I know of--before we go to inspect the child?
It will give me the greatest pleasure if--"

"See here, Rouquin, that's most kind of you, but I'd prefer to have
you take tea with Mrs. Bingle and me. Do you know of a nice, but
thoroughly typical French restaurant where we could--er--get a bit of
the atmosphere, don't you know? We are figuring on taking a trip to
Paris soon and we'd like to--well, you know what I mean? Quiet,
respectable place, you know. Nothing rowdyish."

Rouquin's eyes sparkled. His joy was great. "Ah, I know of such a
place. But it is not a tea-room, in the strict sense of the term. It
is a cafe where one has the finest table d'hote dinner in all New York
for one dollar per person, wine included. Ah, if Monsieur would only
condescend to dine there, AFTER we have seen the child, I am sure--"