I was unfolding the latest edition of _The Westminster Gazette_ with which I always soothe the digestive half-hour after dinner, when Antoinette entered to report progress.
She was sound asleep, the poor little one.

Oh, but she was tired.

She had eaten some _consomme_, a bit of fish and an omelette.

But she was beautiful, gentle as a lamb; and she had a skin _on dirait du satin_.
Had not Monsieur noticed it?
I replied, with some over-emphasis, that I had not.
"Monsieur rather regards the inside of his books," said Antoinette.
"They are generally more worth regarding," said I.
Antoinette said nothing; but there was a feminine quiver at the corners of her fat lips.
She was comfortably disposed of for the night.

I drew a breath of relief.