CHAPTER XVII

I SUP WITH MY WIFE

That evening, which chanced to be Christmas Eve, it was infernally cold.
The snow was falling in heavy flakes, and, driven by the wind, beat
furiously against the window panes. The distant chiming of the bells
could just be heard through this heavy and woolly atmosphere. Foot-
passengers, wrapped in their cloaks, slipped rapidly along, keeping close
to the house and bending their heads to the wintry blast.

Enveloped in my dressing-gown, and tapping with my fingers on the window-
panes, I was smiling at the half-frozen passers-by, the north wind, and
the snow, with the contented look of a man who is in a warm room and has
on his feet comfortable flannel-lined slippers, the soles of which are
buried in a thick carpet. At the fireside my wife was cutting out
something and smiling at me from time to time; a new book awaited me on
the mantelpiece, and the log on the hearth kept shooting out with a
hissing sound those little blue flames which invite one to poke it.

"There is nothing that looks more dismal than a man tramping through the
snow, is there?" said I to my wife.

"Hush," said she, lowering the scissors which she held in her hand; and,
after smoothing her chin with her fingers, slender, rosy, and plump at
their tips, she went on examining the pieces of stuff she had cut out.