“I don't dare tell you.” “Go on!” “Have you loved many women before me?” He hesitated, a little perplexed, not knowing whether he should hide his adventures or boast of them. She continued: “Oh! please tell me. How many have you loved?” “A few.” “How many?” “I don't know. How do you expect me to know such things?” “Haven't you counted them?” “Of course not.” “Then you must have loved a good many!” “Perhaps.” “About how many? Just tell me about how many.” “But I don't know, dearest. Some years a good many, and some years only a few.” “How many a year, did you say?” “Sometimes twenty or thirty, sometimes only four or five.” “Oh! that makes more than a hundred in all!” “Yes, just about.” “Oh! I think that is dreadful!” “Why dreadful?” “Because it's dreadful when you think of it—all those women—and always—always the same thing. Oh! it's dreadful, just the same—more than a hundred women!” He was surprised that she should think that dreadful, and answered, with the air of superiority which men take with women when they wish to make them understand that they have said something foolish: “That's funny! If it is dreadful to have a hundred women, it's dreadful to have one.” “Oh, no, not at all!” “Why not?” “Because with one woman you have a real bond of love which attaches you to her, while with a hundred women it's not the same at all. There is no real love. I don't understand how a man can associate with such women.” “But they are all right.” “No, they can't be!” “Yes, they are!” “Oh, stop; you disgust me!” “But then, why did you ask me how many sweethearts I had had?” “Because——” “That's no reason!” “What were they-actresses, little shop-girls, or society women?” “A few of each.” “It must have been rather monotonous toward the last.” “Oh, no; it's amusing to change.” She remained thoughtful, staring at her champagne glass. It was full —she drank it in one gulp; then putting it back on the table, she threw her arms around her husband's neck and murmured in his ear: “Oh! how I love you, sweetheart! how I love you!” He threw his arms around her in a passionate embrace. A waiter, who was just entering, backed out, closing the door discreetly. In about five minutes the head waiter came back, solemn and dignified, bringing the fruit for dessert. She was once more holding between her fingers a full glass, and gazing into the amber liquid as though seeking unknown things. She murmured in a dreamy voice: “Yes, it must be fun!” A FAMILY AFFAIR