"Oh! -women? " chirped Monsieur. " In the first place, you are not women. ' '
' ' I am not -women ? What am I, then ? ' '
Monsieur rounded his lips, â€” My! what a stupid air he had! â€” and very tenderly, or pretending tenderness, he buzzed:
"Why! you are my wife, my little wife, my pretty little wife. There is no harm in entering the room of one's little wife, I suppose."
When Monsieur played the imbecile lover, it was because he wanted to get some money out of Madame. She, still suspicious, replied:
" 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, â€” 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