"Give them to Goth.—For dessert, such fruit as is in season."
"Prunes?"
"This is summer time, and you don't give your guests dried fruit. Then cheese——"
"Marolles—that's the best."
"Nonsense! your marolles smells up the whole room. Roquefort, and biscuit."
"Enough! enough! you may as well kill me!"
"Oh! you forgot the salad, madame."
Monsieur Mirotaine, in a rage, aimed a kick at Goth, shouting:
"There's salad for you! That will teach you to ask for something else!"
Goth began to cry, and demanded her wages. Madame Mirotaine succeeded in pacifying her, and sent her off to her kitchen; then she berated her husband for giving way so to his temper, and told him that she would leave him if he interfered again in the details of housekeeping. Monsieur Mirotaine, who set great store by his wife for the very reason that she led him by the nose, begged her pardon and added, with a sigh: