Amrod printed the cards while I waited. I had them done in the Old English character. I suggested some little decoration to give them a tone,--an ivy leaf in the corner, or a little flourish under the name,--but Amrod was opposed to this. He seemed to think it was not essential, and it would have been charged extra, and also he had nothing of the kind in stock. So I let that pass. The cards looked very well as they were, a little plain and formal, perhaps, but very clean (except in the case of a few where the ink had rubbed), and very gratifying to one's natural self-respect. [Illustration: "_He seemed to think it was not essential._"] That evening I took a small cardboard box that had contained candles, and packed in it a few carefully selected flowers from the garden, and one of our cards. On the card I wrote "With kindest love from" just above the names, and posted it to Eliza's mother. So far was Eliza's mother from being offended that she sent Eliza a present of a postal-order for five shillings, three pounds of pressed beef, and a nicely worked apron. On glancing over that sentence, I see that it is, perhaps, a little ambiguous. The postal order was for the shillings alone--not for the beef or the apron. I only mention the incident to show whether, in this case, Eliza or I was right. * * * * * I put a few of my own cards in my letter-case, and the rest were packed away in a drawer. A few weeks afterward I was annoyed to find Eliza using some of her cards for winding silks. She said that it did not prevent them from being used again, if they were ever wanted. "Pardon me," I said, "but cards for social purposes should not be bent or frayed at the edge, and can hardly be too clean. Oblige me by not doing that again!" That evening Eliza told me that No. 14 in the Crescent had been taken by some people called Popworth. "That must be young Popworth who used to be in our office," I said. "I heard that he was going to be married this year. You must certainly call and leave cards." "Which sort, and how many?" "Without referring to a book, I can hardly say precisely. These things are very much a matter of taste. Leave enough--say one of each sort for each person in the house. There should be no stint." "How am I to know how many persons there are?" "Ask the butcher with whom they deal." On the following day I remarked that Popworth must have come in for money, to be taking so large a house, and I hoped she had left the cards. "I asked the butcher, and he said there was Popworth, his wife, two sisters, a German friend, and eleven children. That was sixteen persons, and made forty-eight cards altogether. You see, I remembered your rule." "My dear Eliza," I said, "I told you as plainly as possible that it was a matter of taste. You ought not to have left forty-eight at once."