“Harry, you sleepy old thing, this is the third time I’ve asked you whether Madame de Beauville is certain of getting us an invitation to Lord N--------’s picnic at Versailles; do rouse yourself and answer me!” Thus apostrophised, Coverdale--who was stretched at full length on (and beyond) a brocaded sofa, and had been lazily watching his wife, as with a vast deal of unnecessary energy she stitched away at a button, which, according to button-nature, had “come off” her husband’s glove the very first moment he attempted to draw it on--half-raised himself on his elbow as he replied-- “There is nothing certain under the sun; except that my little wife has the prettiest hand and arm of any woman (I don’t care who she may be--Jew, Turk, infidel, heretic, or Christian) in the known world. But that old humbug, Madame de Beauville, promised me faithfully to do her best for us--not that I’d believe her on her oath; she tried to book me for one of her scraggy daughters, the last time I was here; but it wouldn’t act--the trap was too visible, and the bait not sufficiently tempting. What very high action you have with that needle-hand of yours! you’ll overreach yourself, or get sprained in the back sinews, some of these days, if you don’t look out.” “I will not allow you to ‘talk stable’ in that way, sir,” returned Alice, playfully shaking her finger at her recumbent spouse; “you shall not go to the picnic at all, you naughty boy, unless you behave better. Come, get up,” she continued, “if you lie down again you’ll be asleep in a minute; you’re so idle, you’re actually growing fat!” “Nonsense, you don’t really mean it!” exclaimed Harry, springing up with a bound which shook the room, and startled Alice so much that she dropt the glove, needle, thread, button, and all, pricking her finger into the bargain. “By Jove,” he continued, regarding himself anxiously in a large pier-glass, “so I am! I tell you what, Mrs. Coverdale, this is getting serious, and must be put a stop to!” “My dearest Harry, how dreadfully impetuous you are!--you’ve made me jump so, that I’ve dropt my work, and been and gone and pricked my favourite finger, as you say in your horrid slang--look!” So saying, the pretty Alice pouted like a spoilt child, as she then most assuredly was, and held up the injured finger to excite her husband’s commiseration. When a proper degree of pity had been shown, and the necessary amount of matrimonial felicity transacted, Alice resumed: “What a dreadfully conceited fellow you are, to be so alarmed at growing fat! Are you afraid of losing your beauty?” “My how much?” was the astonished reply. “What funny ideas do come into a woman’s head to be sure! Why, you silly child, do you think I ever set up for a ‘beauty’ man? or care two straws what I look like? Such follies are very well for got up puppies, like Horace D’Almayne; but they’re not in my line.”