“Your husband bores me to tears. He’s a grotesque fool--and the most awful bore! You must admit yourself that pottering about all day in his stables, his kennels, and his kitchen garden--for he goes in for gardening too, the duffer--looking at the dogs’ food, the horses, and such-like isn’t what you might call exciting. And then when one comes to think of you and me, I must say it is a bit thick for your husband to hang on to me as he does. He’s such a fool that he makes people talk. It’s perfectly true, I tell you, people are beginning to talk.” She answered him gently and seriously while she slipped on her skirt. “Don’t abuse my husband, Philippe. As I am obliged to have a husband of some sort, it is a very good thing mine is like he is. Just think for a moment, _mon petit_, we might have somebody much worse to deal with.” Philippe’s anger would not be calmed. “And he loves you, the beast!” She made a little grimace and shrugged her shoulders, as if to imply that that was not worth mentioning. That is how Philippe chose to interpret it, for he went on to enlarge upon the subject. “As far as that goes, anyone can see at a glance that he’s not much of a man with the women, but, even then, some things don’t bear thinking about.” Madame de Gromance turned to Philippe a beautiful look full of happiness and peace, a look that counselled the banishment of all painful thoughts, and going up to him placed full upon his lips a kiss, magnificent as a royal scarlet seal. “Mind my cigarette,” he said. By this time she was clothed in a very simple grey dress, and was arranging her toque upon her fluffy hair. Suddenly she broke into a laugh, and he inquired the cause of her amusement. “Oh, nothing!” Then, as he persisted in his inquiry: “Well, I was only thinking that when your mother went to see her lover--years ago, you know--she must have found her hair a terrible nuisance, that is if she wore it as it is in that portrait you have of her at home.” He made no reply, not quite knowing how to treat a joke of this description, which inwardly shocked him. “You’re not angry, surely,” she went on. “You do love me, don’t you?” No, he was not angry; yes, he loved her; and she returned to her original idea. “It is strange, you know. Sons always believe in the virtue of their mothers; daughters, too, but not so implicitly. And yet the fact of a woman having had children is surely not sufficient to prove that she has never had lovers.” She reflected a moment, and then went on: “Things are complicated in this world. Goodbye, _mon petit_. I am walking, and have only just time to get there.” “Why are you walking?” “Because it is good for my health, and then it explains my not having the carriage. And it’s rather fun.” She scrutinized herself in the looking-glass, first three-quarter-ways, then sideways, finally glancing at her back view. “At this hour of the day, for instance, I am sure to collect a good number of followers.” “Why?”