Madame—­Will you be quiet, George?  It is Friday, and Ember week.

Monsieur—­And your dispensation? (He kisses her.) Don’t you see that your hand shakes, that you blush, that your heart is beating?

Madame—­George, will you have done, sir? (She pulls away her hand, throws herself back in the chair, and avoids her husband’s glance.)

Monsieur—­Your poor 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 who in the morning like neither noise nor broad daylight—­how little all that suits!