Madame—(holding her needlework at a distance, the better to judge of the effect)—Tell me, George, would you have this square red or black? You see, the square near the point. Tell me frankly.
Monsieur—(singing) "If you can repent." (Spoken without turning his head.) Red, my dear; red. I should not hesitate; I hate black.
Madame—Yes, but if I make that red it will lead me to— (She reflects.)
Monsieur—Well, my dear, if it leads you away, you must hold fast to something to save yourself.
Madame—Come, George, I am speaking seriously. You know that if this little square is red, the point can not remain violet, and I would not change that for anything.
Monsieur—(slowly and seriously)—My dear, will you follow the advice of an irreproachable individual, to whose existence you have linked your fate? Well, make that square pea-green, and so no more about it. Just look whether a coal fire ever looked like that.
Madame—I should only be too well pleased to use up my pea-green wool; I have a quantity of it.
Monsieur—Then where lies the difficulty?
Madame—The difficulty is that pea-green is not sufficiently religious.
Monsieur—Hum! (Humming.) Holy pains! (Spoken.) Will you be kind enough to pass the bellows? Would it be indiscreet to ask why the poor pea- green, which does not look very guilty, has such an evil reputation? You are going in for religious needlework, then, my dear?