Monsieur—Your religious wool.
Madame—Yes, my religious wool. (She gives him a little pat on the cheek.) Why do you part your hair so much on one side, George? It would suit you much better in the middle, here. Yes, you may kiss me, but gently.
Monsieur—Can you guess what I am thinking of?
Madame—How do you imagine I could guess that?
Monsieur—Well, I am thinking of the barometer which is falling and of the thermometer which is falling too.
Madame—You see, cold weather is coming on and my mat will never be finished. Come, let us make haste.
Monsieur—I was thinking of the thermometer which is falling and of my room which faces due north.
Madame—Did you not choose it yourself? My wool! Good gracious! my wool! Oh! the wicked wretch!
Monsieur—In summer my room with the northern aspect is, no doubt, very pleasant; but when autumn comes, when the wind creeps in, when the rain trickles down the windowpanes, when the fields, the country, seem hidden under a huge veil of sadness, when the spoils of our woodlands strew the earth, when the groves have lost their mystery and the nightingale her voice—oh! then the room with the northern aspect has a very northern aspect, and—
Madame—(continuing to wind her wool)—What nonsense you are talking!