glad I brought that man into the world, even though he doesn't know
it.' And I am glad that you have cried. It makes another woman of you.
I would say 'God bless you,' Madame Rousseau, if it were not that he
has already blessed you."

Later on in the night, Rouquin and his two companions paused at the
foot of a Sixth Avenue Elevated station.

"Good night, old fellow," said Rouquin, giving Jean's hand a mighty
grip. "You are a true friend."

Then Jean said good night cheerily and walked off down the street,
whistling gaily, as one who has completed an honest day's work.

I think I have neglected to mention that Rouquin was an exceedingly
good-looking, fascinating chap of twenty-eight or thirty, and
unmarried.




CHAPTER XIII

TROUBLE, TROUBLE, TROUBLE!


Chapter thirteen is an unlucky one for Mr. Bingle. Many unpleasant
things are crowded into the space devoted to this division of the
narrative, although in the matter of time we leap from early March to
the fifth of July with all the swiftness of one who races at break-