dy
had the flavor of kisses, though their lips had never met.

Each dreamed of the other at night, each thought of the other on
awaking, and, without yet having voiced their sentiments, each longer
for the other, body and soul.

After marriage their love descended to earth. It was at first a
tireless, sensuous passion, then exalted tenderness composed of tangible
poetry, more refined caresses, and new and foolish inventions. Every
glance and gesture was an expression of passion.

But, little by little, without even noticing it, they began to get
tired of each other. Love was still strong, but they had nothing more to
reveal to each other, nothing more to learn from each other, no new
tale of endearment, no unexpected outburst, no new way of expressing the
well-known, oft-repeated verb.

They tried, however, to rekindle the dwindling flame of the first love.
Every day they tried some new trick or desperate attempt to bring back
to their hearts the uncooled ardor of their first days of married life.
They tried moonlight walks under the trees, in the sweet warmth of the
summer evenings: the poetry of mist-covered beaches; the excitement of
public festivals.

One morning Henriette said to Paul:

"Will you take me to a cafe for dinner?"

"Certainly, dearie."

"To some well-known cafe?"

"Of course!"

He looked at her with a questioning glance, seeing that she was thinking
of something which she did not wish to tell.

She went on:

"You know, one of those cafes--oh, how can I explain myself?--a sporty
cafe!"

He smiled: "Of course, I understand--you mean in one of the cafes which
are commonly called bohemian."

"Yes, that's it. But take me to one of the big places, one where you
are known, one where you have already supped--no--dined--well, you
know--I--I--oh! I will never dare say it!"

"Go ahead, dearie. Little secrets should no longer exist between us."

"No, I dare not."

"Go on; don't be prudish. Tell me."

"Well, I--I--I want to be taken for your sweetheart--there! and I want
the boys, who do not know that you are married, to take me for such; and
you too--I want you to think that I am your sweetheart for one hour, in
that place which must hold so many memories for you. There! And I will
play that I am your sweetheart. It's awful, I know--I am abominably
ashamed, I am as red as a peony. Don't look at me!"

He laughed, greatly amused, and answered:

"All right, we will go to-night to a very sw