Berry had by this time arrived at that confidential state to which a third bottle always brings the well-regulated mind; and he made a clean confession to Cutler and myself of his numerous matrimonial annoyances. He was not allowed to dine out, he said, and but seldom to ask his friends to meet him at home. He never dared smoke a cigar for the life of him, not even in the stables. He spent the mornings dawdling in eternal shops, the evenings at endless tea-parties, or in reading poems or missionary tracts to his wife. He was compelled to take physic whenever she thought he looked a little pale, to change his shoes and stockings whenever he came in from a walk. “Look here,” said he, opening his chest, and shaking his fist at Dobus; “look what Angelica and that infernal Dobus have brought me to.” I thought it might be a flannel waistcoat into which madame had forced him; but it was worse: I give you my word of honour it was a PITCH-PLASTER! We all roared at this, and the doctor as loud as anyone; but he vowed that he had no hand in the pitch-plaster. It was a favourite family remedy of the late apothecary Sir George Catacomb, and had been put on by Mrs. Berry's own fair hands. When Anatole came in with coffee, Berry was in such high courage, that he told him to go to the deuce with it; and we never caught sight of Lady Pash more, except when, muffled up to the nose, she passed through the salle-a-manger to go to her carriage, in which Dobus and the parson were likewise to be transported to Paris. “Be a man, Frank,” says she, “and hold your own”--for the good old lady had taken her nephew's part in the matrimonial business--“and you, Mr. Fitz-Boodle, come and see him often. You're a good fellow, take old one-eyed Callipash's word for it. Shall I take you to Paris?” Dear kind Angelica, she had told her aunt all I said! “Don't go, George,” says Berry, squeezing me by the hand. So I said I was going to sleep at Versailles that night; but if she would give a convoy to Jack Butts, it would be conferring a great obligation on him; with which favour the old lady accordingly complied, saying to him, with great coolness, “Get up and sit with John in the rumble, Mr. What-d'ye-call-'im.” The fact is, the good old soul despises an artist as much as she does a tailor. Jack tripped to his place very meekly; and “Remember Saturday,” cried the Doctor; and “Don't forget Thursday!” exclaimed the divine,--“a bachelor's party, you know.” And so the cavalcade drove thundering down the gloomy old Avenue de Paris.