“Your husband is mad, to draw you away from all your friends at a moment’s warning! I would remonstrate—I would not go; I would exert a proper spirit, and force him to abandon this Quixotic expedition.” “You speak hastily, Mrs. Ready. Why should I attempt to prevent an undertaking in which I most cordially concur, and which Mr. Lyndsay thinks would greatly benefit his family?” “Nonsense! I hate, I repudiate such passive obedience, as beneath the dignity of woman! I am none of your soft bread-and-butter wives, who consider it their _duty_ to become the mere _echo_ of their husbands. If _I_ did not wish to go, no tyrannical lord of the creation, falsely so called, should compel me to act against my inclinations.” “Compulsion is not necessary: on this subject we both agree.” “Oh, yes, I see how it is!” with a contemptuous curl of the lip, “you aspire to the character of a good, dutiful wife,—to become an example of enduring patience to all the refractory conjugals in the place, myself among the rest. I understand it all. How _amiable_ some people can be at the expense of others!” Flora was thunderstruck. “Indeed, Mrs. Ready, I meant no reflection upon you. My words had no personal meaning; I never talk _at_ any one.” “Oh, certainly not! You are not aware,” with a strong sneer, “of the differences that exist between Mr. Ready and me (and which will continue to exist, as long as mind claims a superiority over matter); that we are only husband and wife in name. But I forgive you.” “You have nothing to forgive, Mrs. Ready,” said Flora, indignantly; “I never trouble my head with your private affairs—they cannot possibly concern me.” This gave rise to a scene. Mrs. Ready, who lived in an element of strife, delighted in scenes. “Oh, no,” she continued, eagerly clutching at Flora’s last words, “you are _too_ selfishly engrossed with your own happiness to have the least sympathy for the sorrows of a friend. Ah, well!—It’s early days with you _yet_! Let a few short years of domestic care pass over your head, and all this honey will be changed to gall. Matrimony is matrimony, and husbands are husbands, and wives will strive to have their own way—ay, and will fight to get it too. You will then find, Mrs. Lyndsay, that very little of the sugar of love, and all such romantic stuff, remains to sweeten your cup; and in the bitterness of your soul, you will think of me.” “If this is true,” said Flora, “who would marry?” “It is true in my case.” “But fortunately there are exceptions to every rule.” “Humph!—This is another compliment, Mrs. Lyndsay, at my expense.” “Mrs. Ready, I do not wish to quarrel with you; but you seem determined to take all my words amiss.” A long silence ensued,—Mrs. Ready smoothed down her ruffled plumes, and said, in a pitying, patronising tone, very common to her— “You will be disgusted with Canada: we shall see you back in less than twelve months.” “Not very likely, if I know anything of John and myself.”