er in it."

"Ah! I understand, 'The Lights of Faith driving out,' et cetera. But tell
me, aunt, am I not brushing you too hard? Lift up your arm a little,
please. Tell me who has undertaken the part of Unbelief?"

"Don't speak of it, it is quite a history. As it happened, the casting of
the parts took place the very evening on which his Holiness's Encyclical
was published, so that the gentlemen were somewhat excited. Monsieur de
Saint P. took high ground, really very high ground; indeed, I thought for
a moment that the General was going to flare out. In short, no one would
have anything to do with Unbelief, and we had to have recourse to the
General's coachman, John--you know him? He is a good-looking fellow; he
is a Protestant, moreover, so that the part is not a novel one to him."

"No matter, it will be disagreeable for the De N.'s to appear side by
side with a servant."

"Come! such scruples must not be carried too far; he is smeared over with
black and lies stretched on his face, while the three ladies trample on
him, so you see that social proprieties are observed after all. Come,
have you done yet? My hair is rather a success, is it not? Silvani is the
only man who understands how to powder one. He wanted to dye it red, but
I prefer to wait till red hair has found its way a little more into
society."

"There; it is finished, aunt. Is it long before you have to go on?"

"No. Good Heavens, it is close on eleven o'clock! The thought of
appearing before all these people--don't the flowers drooping from my
head make my neck appear rather awkward, Ernest? Will you push them up a
little?"

Then going to the door of the dressing-room she tapped at it gently,
saying, "Are you ready, Monsieur de V.?"

"Yes, Baroness, I have found my apple, but I am horribly nervous. Are
Minerva and Juno dressed? Oh! I am nervous to a degree you have no idea
of."

"Yes, yes, every one is ready; send word to the company in the
drawing-room. My poor heart throbs like to burst, Captain."

CHAPTER IX

HUSBAND AND WIFE
MY DEAR SISTERS:

Marriage, as it is now understood, is not exactly conducive to love. In
this I do not think that I am stating an anomaly. Love in marriage is, as
a rule, too much at his ease; he stretches himself with too great
listlessness in armchairs too well cushioned. He assumes the
unconstrained habits of dressing-gown and slippers; his digestion goes
wrong, his appetite fails and of an evening, in th