Her husband came in. He asked in great surprise:

"What is the matter with you?"

He was happy, quite happy, never having dreamed of another life or other
pleasures. He had been born and had grown up in this melancholy district.
He felt contented in his own house, at ease in body and mind.

He did not understand that one might desire incidents, have a longing for
changing pleasures; he did not understand that it does not seem natural
to certain beings to remain in the same place during the four seasons; he
seemed not to know that spring, summer, autumn, and winter have, for
multitudes of persons, fresh amusements in new places.

She could say nothing in reply, and she quickly dried her eyes. At last
she murmured in a despairing tone:

"I am--I--I am a little sad--I am a little bored."

But she was terrified at having even said so much, and added very
quickly:

"And, besides--I am--I am a little cold."

This last plea made him angry.

"Ah! yes, still your idea of the furnace. But look here, deuce take it!
you have not had one cold since you came here."

Night came on. She went up to her room, for she had insisted on having a