HER HUSBAND. (carelessly)—Ah! that is true.
(Three days afterwards.)
THE HUSBAND. (as he goes to bed)—What do you think, my darling? To-morrow I will leave you at your mother’s, for the count has returned from Frouville and will be at Madame de Fischtaminel’s concert.
HIS WIFE. (vivaciously)—But why should you go alone? You know how I adore music!
The Touch and Go Mouse-Trap.
THE WIFE.—Why did you go away so early this evening?
THE HUSBAND. (mysteriously)—Ah! It is a sad business, and all the more so because I don’t know how I can settle it.
THE WIFE.—What is it all about, Adolph? You are a wretch if you do not tell me what you are going to do!
THE HUSBAND.—My dear, that ass of a Prosper Magnan is fighting a duel with M. de Fontanges, on account of an Opera singer.—But what is the matter with you?
THE WIFE.—Nothing.—It is very warm in this room and I don’t know what ails me, for the whole day I have been suffering from sudden flushing of the face.