“Do mind him for once, Mrs. Jones, although you ladies don’t love obedience to the conjugal yoke,” observed Mr. Fawney, screwing up his face to refrain from laughing at his own wit. “All the young men in town are wishing that you would give a party. They know what they may expect, I can tell you.” “Do they, indeed?” said the lady, expanding. “Then lose no time, Marian Fawney, I leave the invitations to you, for you know none but the first people here, and we can ask as many as you will write down. I give you _coorte blonche_.” “Will you, dear Mrs. Jones,” cried she, embracing that lady with great affection, and filled with delight at the commission given her. “How kind of you to leave every thing to me! But then you know how much I feel—” Miss Fawney here wept a little, and wiping her eyes and snuffling, resumed: “Now we’ll begin with—the Macfusses, of course—then the Fentons—” “But none of them have called on Sara,” interrupted Mr. Jones. “But they will—I know that they intend it. Mrs. Macfuss told me the other day that Mrs. Jones entered a room like a Parisian, and that her dress was perfect!” said Marian. This appeased Mr. Jones, and so enraptured his wife, that it was a pity it was not true; but Miss Fawney told an untruth so gracefully that falsehood became in her _plus belle que la belle verité_. “Shall Mrs. Hill be invited?” asked she in a tone that plainly demanded a negative. “Might as well,” said Mr. Jones, picking his teeth with fashionable ease. “Poor thing!” sighed Miss Fawney, while her face lengthened as she assumed a look of compassion, “does she go out this winter?” “Mrs. Jones says her husband does a bad business this season,” observed Mrs. J. “She can’t get a ball-dress, what’s the use of tempting her?” “Ever principled, my dear Mrs. Jones!” cried Miss Fawney, much affected a second time, but restraining her tears. “However, she might borrow one from her sister,” continued she, feeling that the more she dwelt upon Mrs. Hill’s reverses, the less inclined Mrs. Jones was to be polite to her. “D—n it, let ’em come!” said the master of the house, conscious of no reason for slighting people who were never rude. “What’s the difference to Sally how they dress! She don’t lose by it, does she?” “You have such a kind heart!” cried Marian, taking his hand, and gazing upon him with a look of two-fold approbation; but Mr. Jones turned away, wondering inwardly “what in heaven’s name the girl was forever crying about!” “Come, Sara, decide! shall the invitation be written, or not?” said he, somewhat impatiently. “No!” said the lady, positively, for she had just remembered Mrs. Hill’s indifference to her costly silk, her new carriage, and Pushaw’s fancy cap. * * * * *