arrival there, as he had given directions to the janitor to admit them
without question. He couldn't bear the thought of poor little Madame
Rousseau standing outside in the cold hall with that adorable infant
in imminent peril of freezing to death because of insufficient
apparel.

"Are they descendants of the great genre painter?" inquired Mrs.
Bingle. There was a small painting by the great Barbizon artist in the
Bingle drawing-room. She had been reading up on Rousseau, and Miss
Fairweather had told her how to pronounce genre.

"That I cannot affirm, Madame," said Rouquin, with infinite regret in
his voice. "It is possible, even probable, that Monsieur Rousseau is a
direct descendant, but I am not in a position to say so with
authority. I shall make it a point to repeat your question to him."

"It would be most interesting to have a descendant of Rousseau in the
same house with one of his masterpieces, and under the conditions we
face, don't you think, Mr. Rouquin?" Mrs. Bingle had never been quite
secure in her pronunciation of monsieur, so she avoided the word.

Monsieur Rouquin agreed that it would be amazingly interesting, and
then went on to say that he had known Madame Rousseau while she was
still petite Marie Vallamont, but his acquaintance with her husband
was of short duration. In fact, he knew little about him except that
his great grandfather had been beheaded at the time of the revolution,
which was in itself sufficient proof that he was descended from the
aristocracy if not the nobility of France.

"You are aware, of course," said he, "that only the aristocracy had