"Yes, there is harm."
And she minced:
"Your little wife? Your little wife? It is not so sure that I am your little wife."
"What! It is not so sure?"
"Indeed, one never knows. Men are so queer."
"I tell you, you are my little wife,—my dear, my only little wife ... ah!"
"And you ... my baby ... my big baby ... his little wife's only big baby ... na!"
I was lacing Madame, who, with bare arms raised, was looking into the mirror. And I had a great desire to laugh. How they tired me with their "little wife" and their "big baby"! What a stupid air they both had!
After picking up skirts, stockings, and towels, and disturbing brushes, jars, and bottles, Monsieur took a fashion journal which was lying on the dressing-table, and sat down on a sort of plush-covered stool. He asked:
"Is there a rebus in this number?"