Monsieur—I protest against autumns, that is all. God’s sun is hidden and I seek another. Is not that natural, my little fairhaired saint, my little mystic lamb, my little blessed palmbranch? This new sun I find in you, pet—in your look, in the sweet odor of your person, in the rustling of your skirt, in the down on your neck which one notices by the lamp-light when you bend over the vicar’s mat, in your nostril which expands when my lips approach yours—
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.)