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back again! I begin to feel uneasy about them."
Marguerite was at this time employed in laying the cloth.
"And are you equally anxious for the return of your sons?" said I to her.
"Not I," she replied peevishly; "they are no children of mine."
"Come, come, Marguerite!" said the husband, "do not be out of humour with the gentleman for asking a simple question: had you not looked so cross, he would never have thought you old enough to have a son of three-and-twenty; but you see how many years ill-temper adds to you!—Excuse my wife's rudeness, monsieur; a little thing puts her out; and she is somewhat displeased at your not thinking her to be under thirty.—That is the truth, is it not, Marguerite? You know, monsieur, that age is always a ticklish subject with a woman. Come, come, Marguerite! clear up a little. If you have not sons as old, you willsome
