"Am I?" she said. "Perhaps you will say I am a good little _bourgeoise_. Possibly! But I will tell you this: happy as I am now, I am not sure that I was not happier still when we were quite poor, pulling, struggling together, hand in hand. I have never dreaded poverty; on the contrary, I have enjoyed it, loved it by your side. To poverty I owe the happiest days of my life. Do you remember, for instance, how we enjoyed the play when, once a month, obscure, unknown to everybody, we went to the upper circle? Wasn't it lovely? And how we often yawn now, once a week, in the stalls!" "Yes," said Philip, "and how we made the dinner shorter, so as to be able to afford the price of two seats in that upper circle?" "Right, and that's why we enjoyed the play so much. We were not overfed in those days." "We were not," seconded Philip. "You cannot enjoy, even appreciate anything intellectual after a dinner of six or eight courses: you are only fit for a pantomime or a music-hall. And that's why those pathetic forms of entertainment are so successful now. Why, look at the people in the boxes--indifferent, half sulky, lifting their eyebrows and staring their eyes out--like that--awful!" "Yes," said Philip, "all the response, all the appreciation, all the warmth comes from the pit and gallery." "And do you also remember when, two years after we were married, our _general_ suddenly gave notice, and left us alone to manage housekeeping as best we could while Hobbs was temporarily absent? And how I cooked all the meals, and how you never enjoyed them better? Now, say it's true." "Perfectly true. And I peeled the potatoes." "The less you speak of that, the better. You wasted half of them. But what fun! The house was gay, happy, ringing with our laughter all day long; so much so that, in a month, baby put on six pounds of flesh." "And how I cleaned the knives!" said Philip, who was enjoying the reminiscences. "Which helped your appetite for breakfast." "And the boots--now, I did not like cleaning the boots." "Yes, you did, and they never shone so beautifully." "Well, I flatter myself I was able to make myself useful." "Those were and will always be the dear old days of my life." "And how pretty you looked," said Philip, "with a white apron on, and your sleeves tucked up, showing your lovely arms." "Ah!" said Dora, "and do you also remember how you were once turned out of the kitchen for kissing the cook? You were sorry when I got a new servant." "Upon my word, I believe I was."