"Yes, passionately fond of them," replied Van Mitten.
"Look here, Van Mitten. Frankly now, I think you are very cool about your wife."
"Cool! The expression is even too warm, if applied to my regard in that quarter."
"What do you say?" exclaimed Kéraban.
"I say," replied the Dutchman, "that I did not wish you to talk of Madame Van Mitten at all! But since you have mentioned her, and the occasion is favourable, I will make a confession."
"A confession!"
"Yes, friend Kéraban; Madame Van Mitten and I are separated."
"Separated?—by mutual consent?"
"Yes."
"For ever?"
"For ever."
"Tell me all about it, unless your feelings—"
"Feelings!" exclaimed the Dutchman; "why should I have any feeling in the matter?"
"Very well, then. Go on; speak. In my position as a Turk, Van Mitten, I am fond of tales; and, as an unmarried man, I delight in all matrimonial histories."
"Well," said Van Mitten, in a disinterested manner, as if he were telling a story concerning a stranger, "for many years Madame Van Mitten and I did not get on very well. We had disputes upon every subject—bed-time, getting-up time, dinner-time: concerning what we should eat, and what we should not eat; on what we should drink; upon what we did; on the time of day it was, and what it ought to be; on the placing of the furniture; whether the fire should be lighted in this or that room; whether the window or door should be shut or open; on what plants should be retained in the garden, and what should be torn up."
"That promised well," remarked Kéraban.
"Yes, but you see it all cane to nothing, as I am of a mild and long-suffering disposition, and I always yielded without causing an open rupture."
"That was perhaps the wisest plan," said Ahmet.
"On the contrary," remarked Kéraban, "it was foolish."
