"I don't know what you mean by `a manner of speaking.' I _have_, wuss luck! so now I know. I always laughed before, and felt superior and forbearing, and wondered why he married her, and felt so sorry for him that he had. One of the many aggravating things about a man is that he looks so much nicer middle-aged. He is scraggy when he is young, but he fills out, and grows broad and dignified, and the little touch of grey in his hair has quite a _poudree_ effect. But his wife does not improve. Take 'em fat, or take 'em thin, there's no getting away from it, they look worse every year. It needs a lot of grace, Martin, for a woman, to watch herself growing steadily into a fright, and to keep on smiling!" "Every woman, my vain one, is not so much occupied with her appearance as you are. When she gets middle-aged, she doesn't care." "Then she ought to, or her last estate will be worse than the first. Her husband and children will rise up and rend her. Her boys will blush for her when she goes to their public school; and her girls will have engagements when she wants to go out, and her husband will think thoughts, and look back and wonder `_Why_'--" "Not necessarily. It doesn't follow. I was at a musical At Home one evening last year, when a professional sang, `Believe me if all those endearing young charms'--You know how it goes on!--`were to fade by to-morrow, etc., thou wouldst still be beloved, as this moment thou art, and around the dear ruins, each wish of my heart, would entwine itself faithfully still.' The hostess seized that moment to sail out of the room. She was a vast woman. Parts of her were engulfed by the doorway long before her head vanished from sight. She had numerous chins, but, imbedded in flesh, one could still trace a likeness to an ethereally fair daughter. The host took me by the arm, and pointed covertly to the door. `_My dear Ruins_!' he whispered beneath his breath. `_My dear Ruins_!' But there was love in his eyes, as well as fun. He loved his Ruins!" "Bless him!" cried Grizel warmly. "May his tribe increase! But most men don't. So she must do her best. If she's fat, she diets, and it's harder for a middle-class housewife to diet than for any creature on the face of the earth. Because why? She has to rack her brains every morning to think of nice things for other people to eat, and naturally she thinks of the things she likes best herself, and then she sallies forth and buys them, and smells the smell of their seasoning all afternoon, and at the great moment says, `No thank you!' and eats minced beef. And when the poor dear catches hold of an infinitesimal crinkle in her gown, and calls upon those present to witness that she grows so thin that it hangs upon her,--they jeer, and laugh her to scorn. I've heard it. I've seen it. It's a heartrending sight." "I'll promise faithfully not to jeer when you grow fat."