ea-green wool; I
have a quantity of it.

Monsieur--Then where lies the difficulty?

Madame--The difficulty is that pea-green is not sufficiently religious.

Monsieur--Hum! (Humming.) Holy pains! (Spoken.) Will you be kind
enough to pass the bellows? Would it be indiscreet to ask why the poor
pea-green, which does not look very guilty, has such an evil reputation?
You are going in for religious needlework, then, my dear?

Madame--Oh, George! I beg of you to spare me your fun. I have been
familiar with it for a long time, you know, and it is horribly
disagreeable to me. I am simply making a little mat for the
confessional-box of the vicar. There! are you satisfied? You know what
it is for, and you must understand that under the present circumstances
pea-green would be altogether out of place.

Monsieur--Not the least in the world. I can swear to you that I could
just as well confess with pea-green under my feet. It is true that I am
naturally of a resolute disposition. Use up your wool; I can assure
you that the vicar will accept it all the same. He does not know how to
refuse. (He plies the bellows briskly.)

Madame--You are pleased, are you not?

Monsieur--Pleased at what, dear?

Madame--Pleased at having vented your sarcasm, at having passed a jest
on one who is absent. Well, I tell you that you are a bad man, seeing
that you seek to shake the faith of those about you. My beliefs had
need be very fervent, principles strong, and have real virtue, to resist
these incessant attacks. Well, why are you looking at me like that?

Monsieur--I want to be converted, my little apostle. You are so
pretty when you speak out; your eyes glisten, your voice rings, your
gestures--I am sure that you could speak like that for a long time, eh?
(He kisses her hand, and takes two of her curls and ties them under hey
chin.) You are looking pretty, my pet.

Madame--Oh! you think you have reduced me to silence because you have
interrupted me. Ah! there, you have tangled my hair. How provoking you
are! It will take me an hour to put it right. You are not satisfied with
being a prodigy of impiety, but you must also tangle my hair. Come, hold
out your hands and take this skein of wool.

Monsieur--(sitting down on a stool, which he draws as closely as
possible to Madame, and holding up his hands) My little Saint John!

Madame--Not so close, George; not so close. (She smiles despite
herself.) How silly you are! Please be careful; you