little mystic lamb, my little blessed palmbranch? This new sun I find in
you, pet--in your look, in the sweet odor of your person, in the rustling
of your skirt, in the down on your neck which one notices by the lamp-
light when you bend over the vicar's mat, in your nostril which expands
when my lips approach yours--

Madame--Will you be quiet, George? It is Friday, and Ember week.

Monsieur--And your dispensation? (He kisses her.) Don't you see that
your hand shakes, that you blush, that your heart is beating?

Madame--George, will you have done, sir? (She pulls away her hand,
throws herself back in the chair, and avoids her husband's glance.)

Monsieur--Your poor little heart beats, and it is right, dear; it knows
that autumn is the time for confidential chats and evening caresses, the
time for kisses. And you know it too, for you defend yourself poorly,
and I defy you to look me in the face. Come! look me in the face.

Madame--(she suddenly leans toward hey husband, the ball of wool rolling
into the fireplace, the pious task falling to the ground. She takes his
head between her hands)--Oh, what a dear, charming husband you would be
if you had--

Monsieur--If I had what? Tell me quickly.

Madame--If you had a little religion. I should only ask for such a
little at the beginning. It is not very difficult, I can assure you.
While, now, you are really too--