The master of the home arrived. He entered like a gust of wind, and Marthe, the thin old parlourmaid, who had evidently been lying in wait for him, started back in alarm, but alarm half-simulated. My host, about the same age as his wife, was a doctor, specialising in the diseases of women and children, and he had his cabinet on the ground-floor of the same house. He was late, he was impatient to regain his hearth, he was proud of his industry; and the simple, instinctive joy of life sparkled in his eye.
“Marie,” he cried to his wife. “I love thee!” And kissed her furiously on both cheeks.
“It is well,” she responded, calmly smiling, with a sort of flirtatious condescension.
“I tell thee I love thee!” he insisted, with his hands on her shoulders. “Tell me that thou lovest me!”
“I love thee,” she said calmly.
“It is very well!” he said, and swinging round to Marthe, giving her his hat. “Marthe, I love you.” And he caught her a smack on the shoulder.
