“My dear Alphonso!” said the wife, looking up from the wristband to which she was attaching a neat mother-o’-pearl button. She said no more; it was the sharpest rebuke she was in the custom of administering to her husband’s cynical and odious observations. Riccabocca lighted his pipe with a thread paper, gave three great puffs, and resumed. “One blunderbuss, four pistols, and a house-dog called Pompey, who would have made mincemeat of Julius Cæsar!” “He certainly eats a great deal, does Pompey!” said Mrs. Riccabocca, simply. “But if he relieves your mind!” “He does not relieve it in the least, ma’am,” groaned Riccabocca: “and that is the point I was coming to. This is a most harassing life, and a most undignified life. And I who have only asked from Heaven dignity and repose! But, if Violante were once married, I should want neither blunderbuss, pistol, nor Pompey. And it is that which would relieve my mind, _cara mia_;—Pompey only relieves my larder!” Now Riccabocca had been more communicative to Jemima than he had been to Violante. Having once trusted her with one secret, he had every motive to trust her with another; and he had accordingly spoken out his fears of the Count di Peschiera. Therefore she answered, laying down the work, and taking her husband’s hand tenderly: “Indeed, my love, since you dread so much (though I own that I must think unreasonably) this wicked, dangerous man, it would be the happiest thing in the world to see dear Violante well married; because, you see, if she is married to one person, she can not be married to another; and all fear of this Count, as you say, would be at an end.” “You can not express yourself better. It is a great comfort to unbosom one’s self to a wife, after all!” quoth Riccabocca. “But,” said the wife, after a grateful kiss: “but where and how can we find a husband suitable to the rank of your daughter?” “There—there—there,” cried Riccabocca, pushing back his chair to the farther end of the room: “that comes of unbosoming one’s self! Out flies one’s secret; it is opening the lid of Pandora’s box; one is betrayed, ruined, undone!” “Why? there’s not a soul that can hear us!” said Mrs. Riccabocca, soothingly. “That’s chance, ma’am! If you once contract the habit of blabbing out a secret when nobody’s by, how on earth can you resist it when you have the pleasurable excitement of telling it to all the world? Vanity, vanity—woman’s vanity! Woman never could withstand rank—never!” The Doctor went on railing for a quarter of an hour, and was very reluctantly appeased by Mrs. Riccabocca’s repeated and tearful assurances that she would never even whisper to herself that her husband had ever held any other rank than that of Doctor. Riccabocca, with a dubious shake of the head, renewed: