Monsieur—Certainly, Monsieur Silvani, only too happy to be agreeable to you. (He sits down on a chair.)
Madame—(hastily)—Not there, my dear, you will rumple my skirt. (The husband gets up and looks for another seat.) Take care behind you, you are stepping on my bustle.
Monsieur—(turning round angrily)—Her bustle! her bustle!
Madame—Now you go upsetting my pins.
Silvani—May I beg a moment of immobility, Madame?
Monsieur—Come, calm yourself, I will go into the drawing-room; is there a fire there?
Madame—(inattentively)—But, my dear, how can you expect a fire to be in the drawing-room?
Monsieur—I will go to my study, then.
Madame—There is none there, either. What do you want a fire in your study for? What a singular idea! High up, you know, Silvani, and a dash of disorder, it is all the rage.
Silvani—Would you allow a touch of brown under the eyes? That would enable me to idealize the coiffure.