Lady B.—“Indeed I don’t; on the contrary, I know very well that you are wonderfully clever with your needle. But what you are doing there is too delicate for slippers, don’t you think so? Those colours will be so quickly soiled, especially if the Count has my husband’s trick of crossing his feet when he is sitting or lounging in his easy chair.”
La Comtesse.—“They are only for the bedroom. I don’t like men in slippers, it makes them look shorter, and authorises them to take little liberties in one’s company—to cross their legs, and so on; I shall have heels put to these, I will not have my husband lose a particle of his height in my eyes. And you, dear, what is that you are about?”
Lady B.—“A kind of calotte. We call it a smoking-cap in English.”
La Comtesse.—“You don’t mean it?”
Lady B.—“Why not?”
La Comtesse.—“How old is Lord B.?”
Lady B.—“Thirty-two.”
La Comtesse.—“And you are going to let him wear a cap like that? (Laughing heartily.) But, ma chère, the forehead is the finest part of a man. If you tolerate a skull cap, we shall soon see you knitting him night-caps. It’s a sloping and dangerous path you are on. There’s divorce ahead....”
Lady B.—“Oh! I like to see men at their ease about the house.”
La Comtesse.—“At their ease! And supposing you do, that’s not a reason for making them frights. They are quite ugly enough as they are. Besides, you will make that poor Lord B. horribly susceptible to cold in the head. Do you know anything more ridiculous than a man with his nose turned into a noisy trumpet? I should never be able to help laughing in his face; it would be no use my trying.”