other, body and soul.

After marriage their love descended to earth. It was at first a tireless,
sensuous passion, then exalted tenderness composed of tangible poetry,
more refined caresses, and new and foolish inventions. Every glance and
gesture was an expression of passion.

But, little by little, without even noticing it, they began to get tired
of each other. Love was still strong, but they had nothing more to reveal
to each other, nothing more to learn from each other, no new tale of
endearment, no unexpected outburst, no new way of expressing the
well-known, oft-repeated verb.

They tried, however, to rekindle the dwindling flame of the first love.
Every day they tried some new trick or desperate attempt to bring back to
their hearts the uncooled ardor of their first days of married life. They
tried moonlight walks under the trees, in the sweet warmth of the summer
evenings: the poetry of mist-covered beaches; the excitement of public
festivals.

One morning Henriette said to Paul:

"Will you take me to a cafe for dinner?"

"Certainly, dearie."

"To some well-known cafe?"

"Of course!"

He looked at her with a questioning glance, seeing that she was thinking
of something which she did not wish to tell.

She went on:

"You know, one of those cafes--oh, how can I explain myself?--a
sporty cafe!"

He smiled: "Of course, I understand--you mean in one of the cafes
which are commonly called bohemian."

"Yes, that's it. But take me to one of the big places, one where you are
known, one where you have already supped--no--dined--well,
you know--I--I--oh! I will never dare say it!"

"Go ahead, dearie. Little secrets should no longer exist between us."

"No, I dare not."

"Go on; don't be prudish. Tell me."

"Well, I--I--I want to be taken for your
sweetheart--there! and I want the boys, who do not know that you are
married, to take me for such; and you too--I want you to think that
I am your sweetheart for one hour, in that place which must hold so many
memories for you. There! And I will play that I am your sweetheart. It's
awful, I know--I am abominably ashamed, I am as red as a peony.
Don't look at me!"

He laughed, greatly amused, and answered:

"All right, we will go to-night to a very swell place where I am well
known."

Toward seven o'clock they went up the stairs of one of the big cafes on
the Boulevard, he, smiling, with the look of a conqueror, she, timid,
veiled, delighted. They were