an a hundred in all!"

"Yes, just about."

"Oh! I think that is dreadful!"

"Why dreadful?"

"Because it's dreadful when you think of it--all those women--and
always--always the same thing. Oh! it's dreadful, just the same--more
than a hundred women!"

He was surprised that she should think that dreadful, and answered, with
the air of superiority which men take with women when they wish to make
them understand that they have said something foolish:

"That's funny! If it is dreadful to have a hundred women, it's dreadful
to have one."

"Oh, no, not at all!"

"Why not?"

"Because with one woman you have a real bond of love which attaches you
to her, while with a hundred women it's not the same at all. There is no
real love. I don't understand how a man can associate with such women."

"But they are all right."

"No, they can't be!"

"Yes, they are!"

"Oh, stop; you disgust me!"

"But then, why did you ask me how many sweethearts I had had?"

"Because----"

"That's no reason!"

"What were they-actresses, little shop-girls, or society women?"

"A few of each."

"It must have been rather monotonous toward the last."

"Oh, no; it's amusing to change."

She remained thoughtful, staring at her champagne glass. It was full
--she drank it in one gulp; then putting it back on the table, she threw
her arms around her husband's neck and murmured in his ear:

"Oh! how I love you, sweetheart! how I love you!"

He threw his arms around her in a passionate embrace. A waiter, who was
just entering, backed out, closing the door discreetly. In about five
minutes the head waiter came back, solemn and dignified, bringing the
fruit for dessert. She was once more holding between her fingers a
full glass, and gazing into the amber liquid as though seeking unknown
things. She murmured in a dreamy voice:

"Yes, it must be fun!"

A FAMILY AFFAIR

The small engine attached to the Neuilly steam-tram whistled as it
passed the Porte Maillot to warn all obstacles to get out of its way and
puffed like a person out of breath as it sent out its steam, its pistons
moving rapidly with a noise as of iron legs running. The train was going
along the broad avenue that ends at the Seine. The sultry heat at the
close of a July day lay over the whole city, and from the road, although
there was not a breath of wind stirring, there arose a white, chalky,
suffocating, warm dust, which adhered to the moist skin, filled the eye