So I had gone into the dressing-room of my husband, who, standing before the glass, very lightly clad, was prosaically shaving.

“Excuse me, dear,” said he, laughing, and he held up his shaving-brush, covered with white lather.  “You will pardon my going on with this.  Do you want anything?”

“I came, on the contrary,” I answered, “to see whether you had need of anything;” and, greatly embarrassed myself, for I was afraid of being indiscreet, and I was not sure whether one ought to go into one’s husband’s room like this, I added, innocently, “Your shirts have buttons, have they not?”

“Oh, what a good little housewife I have married!  Do not bother yourself about such trifles, my pet.  I will ask your maid to look after my buttons,” said he.

I felt confused; I was afraid of appealing too much of a schoolgirl in his eyes.  He went on working his soap into a lather with his shaving-brush.  I wanted to go away, but I was interested in such a novel fashion by the sight of my husband, that I had not courage to do so.  His neck was bare—­a thick, strong neck, but very white and changing its shape at every movement—­the muscles, you know.  It would have been horrible in a woman, that neck, and yet it did not seem ugly to me.  Nor was it admiration that thus inspired me; it was rather like gluttony.  I wanted to touch it.  His hair, cut very short—­according to regulation—­grew very low, and between its beginning and the ear there was quite a smooth white place.  The idea at once occurred to me that if ever I became brave enough, it was there that I should kiss him oftenest; it was strange, that presentiment, for it is in fact on that little spot that I—­

He stopped short.  I fancied I understood that he was afraid of appearing comical in my eyes, with his face smothered in lather; but he was wrong.  I felt myself all in a quiver at being beside a man—­the word man is rather distasteful to me, but I can not find another, for husband would not express my thoughts—­at being beside a man in the making of his toilette.  I should have liked him to go on without troubling himself; I should have liked to see how he managed to shave himself without encroaching on his moustache, how he made his parting and brushed his hair with the two round brushes I saw on the table, what use he made of all the little instruments set out in order on the marble-tweezers, scissors, tiny combs, little pots and bottles with silver tops, and a whole arsenal of bright things, that aroused quite a desire to beautify one’s self.

I should have liked him while talking to attend to the nails of his hands, which I was already very fond of; or, better still, to have handed them over to me.  How I should have rummaged in the little corners, cut, filed, arranged all that.

“Well, dear, what are you looking at me like that for?” said he, smiling.

I lowered my eyes at once, and felt that I was blushing.  I was uneasy, although charmed, amid these new surroundings.  I did not know what to answer, and mechanically I dipped the tip of my finger into the little china pot in which the soap was being lathered.