My wife advised me of the visit which William Edgerton had proposed to the picture collection. “I will go,” she said, “if you will.” “You must go without me.” “Ah, why? Surely, you can go one morning?” “Impossible. The morning is the time for business. THAT must be attended to, you know.” “But you needn't slave yourself at it because it is business, Edward. But that I know that you are not a money-loving man, I should suppose, sometimes, from the continual plea of business, that you were a miser, and delighted in filling old stockings to hide away in holes and chinks of the wall. Come, now, Saturday is not usually a busy day with you lawyers; steal it this once and go with us. I lose half the pleasure of the sight always, when you are not with me, and when I know that you are engaged in working for me elsewhere.” “Ah, you mistake, Julia. You shall not flatter me into such a faith. You lose precious little by my absence.” “But, Edward, I do; believe me--it is true.” “Impossible! No, no, Julia, when you look on the Carlo Dolce and the Guido, you will forget not only the toils of the husband, but that you have one at all. You will forget my harsh features in the contemplation of softer ones.” “Your features are not harsh ones, Edward.” “Nay, you shall not persuade me that I am not an Orson--a very wild man of the woods. I know I am. I know that I have harsh features; nay, I fancy you know it too, by this time, Julia.” “I admit the sternness at times, Edward, but I deny the harshness. Besides, sternness, you know, is perfectly compatible with the possession of the highest human beauty. I am not sure that a certain portion of sternness is not absolutely necessary to manly beauty. It seems to me that I have never yet seen what I call a handsome man, whose features had not a certain sweet gravity, a sort of melancholy defiance, in them which neutralized the effect of any effeminacy which mere beauty must have had; and imparted to them a degree of character which compelled you to turn again and look, and made you remember them, even when they had disappeared from sight. Now, it may be the vanity of a wife, Edward, but it seems to me that this is the very sort of face which you possess.” “Ah! you are very vain of me, I know--very!” “Proud, fond--not vain!” “You deceive yourself still, I suspect, even with your distinctions. But you must forego the pleasure of displaying my 'stern beauties,' as your particular possession, at the gallery. You must content yourself with others not so stern, though perhaps not less beautiful, and certainly more amiable. Edgerton will be your sufficient chaperon.” “Yes, but I do not wish to be troubling Mr. Edgerton so frequently; and, indeed, I would rather forego the pleasure of seeing the pictures altogether, than trespass in this way upon his attention and leisure.”