little heart beats, and it is right, dear; it knows
that autumn is the time for confidential chats and evening caresses, the
time for kisses. And you know it too, for you defend yourself poorly, and
I defy you to look me in the face. Come! look me in the face.

Madame--(she suddenly leans toward hey husband, the ball of wool rolling
into the fireplace, the pious task falling to the ground. She takes his
head between her hands)--Oh, what a dear, charming husband you would be
if you had--

Monsieur--If I had what? Tell me quickly.

Madame--If you had a little religion. I should only ask for such a little
at the beginning. It is not very difficult, I can assure you. While, now,
you are really too--

Monsieur--Pea-green, eh?

Madame--Yes, pea-green, you great goose. (She laughs frankly.)

Monsieur--(lifting his hands in the air)--Sound trumpets! Madame has
laughed; Madame is disarmed. Well, my snowwhite lamb, I am going to
finish my story; listen properly, there, like that--your hands here, my
head so. Hush! don't laugh. I am speaking seriously. As I was saying to
you, the north room is large but cold, poetic but gloomy, and I will add
that two are not too many in this wintry season to contend against the
rigors of the night. I will further remark that if the sacred ties of
marriage have a profoundly social significance, it is--do not interrupt
me--at that hour of one's existence when one shivers on one's solitary
couch.

Madame--You can not be serious.

Monsieur--Well, seriously, I should like the vicar's mat piously spread
upon your bed, to keep us both warm together, this very evening. I wish
to return as speedily as possible to the intimacy of conjugal life. Do
you hear how the wind blows and whistles through the doors? The fire
splutters, and your feet are frozen. (He takes her foot in his hands.)

Madame--But you are taking off my slipper, George.

Monsieur--Do you think, my white lamb, that I am going to leave your poor
little foot in that state? Let it stay in my hand to be warmed. Nothing
is so cold as silk. What! openwork stockings? My dear, you are rather
dainty about your foot-gear for a Friday. Do you know, pet, you can not
imagine how gay I wake up when the morning sun shines into my room. You
shall see. I am no longer a man; I am a chaffinch; all the joys of spring
recur to me. I laugh, I sing, I speechify, I tell tales to make one die
of laughter. Sometimes I even dance.

Madame--Come now! I wh