“Gracious Heavens! Mrs. Dove!” exclaimed the Reverend, plumping down into an arm-chair, and raising both hands in irritable deprecation, “knowing what you do, how can you ask such a question? Of course, if this house is too uncomfortable to live in, and it don’t matter about the parish going to the d— to the dogs, and the Bishop is to be a nonentity, and _my_ duties a farce, you are perfectly right to go gadding about from here to Brighton, and from Brighton to London, and from London to Halifax, if you like, and I shall be happy to indulge you. I only wish you would tell me where the money is to come from—where the money is to come from, Mrs. Dove—that’s all!” And, having thus spoken, the Reverend took up the _Leicester Journal_, and looked over the top of it at his wife, as if he had indeed propounded _a poser_. This was exactly what that dear artful woman wanted. She knew that when he had blown off his steam, her husband would settle down into his usual easy temper, and become perfectly malleable in about five minutes. So she folded the poor parishioner’s little shirt with the nicest accuracy, and replied in the most perfect good-humour— “Well, dear, I’m sure I don’t want to move from here till we go to London. You know I’m so fond of my garden in the spring, and I like you to get your hunting as long as you can: it does you so much good. My idea is, London about the time of the Derby; then Ascot for a week; and home again by the beginning of July. After all, we are wonderfully well situated here for the country as regards society, and Harborough never was so full as it seems this season. What should we do in this part of the world if it wasn’t for hunting?” Precious, in proportion to their rarity, opinions so orthodox sank like music in the Reverend’s ear. Five-and-twenty years’ experience had failed to teach him, that such congenial sentiments must as necessarily be followed by a request, as a soft southerly wind is succeeded by rain. And this is the strangest feature in our subservience to the other sex. Though they deceive us ninety-nine times, we believe them the hundredth, and, more foolish than the feathered biped, though its meshes be spread in our very sight, rush open-eyed, neck-and-heels into the net of the fowler. The Reverend glanced at the wife of his bosom, and thought her wonderfully like that picture done a score of years ago. He said as much: but the compliment by no means diverted Mrs. Dove from the object she had in view. “Cissy and I were just talking,” said she simply, “of your friend Mr. Crasher, and the rest of them. By the bye, you really ought to ask some of them to dinner. There’s a barrel of oysters come by rail last night, and our turkeys this year are finer than usual. Better say Tuesday, don’t you think, Papa?” added she coaxingly.