Madame—­Do you think so? (She adjusts her coiffure with her white hand.) I thought you would like that scent; now, if I were in your place I should—­

Monsieur—­What would you do in my place, dear?

Madame—­I should—­kiss my wife.

Monsieur—­(kissing her)—­Well, I must say you have very bright ideas sometimes.  Give me a little bit more partridge, please. (With his mouth full.) How pretty these poor little creatures look when running among the corn.  You know the cry they give when the sun sets?—­A little gravy.—­There are moments when the poetic side of country life appeals to one.  And to think that there are barbarians who eat them with cabbage.  But (filling his glass) have you a gown ready?

Madame—­(with innocent astonishment.)—­What for, dear?

Monsieur—­Why, for Madame de Lyr’s—­

Madame—­For the ball?—­What a memory you have—­There you are still thinking of it—­No, I have not—­ah! yes, I have my tarletan, you know; but then a woman needs so little to make up a ball-room toilette.

Monsieur—­And the hairdresser, has he been sent for?

Madame—­No, he has not been sent for; but I am not anxious to go to this ball.  We will settle down by the fireside, read a little, and go to bed early.  You remind me, however, that, on leaving, Madame de Lyr did say, “Your hairdresser is the same as mine, I will send him word.”  How stupid I am; I remember now that I did not answer her.  But it is not far, I can send Marie to tell him not to come.

Monsieur—­Since this blessed hairdresser has been told, let him come and we will go and—­amuse ourselves a little at Madame de Lyr’s.  But on one condition only; that I find all my dress things laid out in readiness on my bed with my gloves, you know, and that you tie my necktie.

Madame—­A bargain. (She kisses him.) You are a jewel of a husband.  I am delighted, my poor dear, because I see you are imposing a sacrifice upon yourself in order to please me; since, as to the ball itself, I am quite indifferent about it.  I did not care to go; really now I don’t care to go.

Monsieur—­Hum.  Well, I will go and smoke a cigar so as not to be in your way, and at ten o’clock I will be back here.  Your preparations will be over and in five minutes I shall be dressed.  Adieu.

Madame—­Au revoir.

Monsieur, after reaching the street, lit his cigar and buttoned up his great-coat.  Two hours to kill.  It seems a trifle when one is busy, but when one has nothing to do it is quite another thing.  The pavement is slippery, rain is beginning to fall—­fortunately the Palais Royal is not far off.  At the end of his fourteenth tour round the arcades, Monsieur looks at his watch.  Five minutes to ten, he will be late.  He rushes home.

In the courtyard the carriage is standing waiting.