“But goodness me!” cried Nancy, “what an extravagant way of going on! It may be all very well for duchesses and grand ladies; but that would never do for a poor girl like me.” “You forget you are not a girl at all, much less a poor one,” he said, pursuing his wiles, “but a married lady, my Nancy.” Goodness me is not a pretty oath; he swallowed it however, not daring to attempt correction, with a secret grimace. “Yes, that is all very well,” she repeated, “but all the same we are poor enough. I shan’t be a bit richer than I was. I may be grander, I don’t know; for your folks have cast you off, Arthur, you mustn’t forget that.” “Oh! my _folks_!” cried the unhappy one under his breath; the word hurt him, in spite of himself. He had not been so delicate once; but this was like a dig in the ribs to Arthur. It made him cry out, though he stifled the cry. “No, I don’t think much of what you say if that is French fashion,” said Nancy, “English fashion is far better. Instead of fussing and changing all day long, and wasting one’s time, it is so convenient just to pin in a bit of lace and double back the fronts, and there you have a lovely dress for the evening; that’s what I like. No need to go and unpack one’s boxes and get out another dress, it’s done in a moment. You must allow, Arthur, that English fashion is best for that.” Poor Arthur! he thought of his sister’s little simple toilettes, so fresh, so crisp, so plain! and he did not know--what foolish young man ever does know? that whereas the finery is an easy matter, these dainty sobrieties of garb are the highest quintessence of art. In novels, which are the chief exponents of young women to young men, and of young men to young women, has not the captivating humble bride always a spotless collar and cuffs ready for every emergency, which make her exquisite on all occasions? Why had not Nancy the secret of that little collar and snowy cuff? All this, however, is a digression from the letter which he found in his pocket, having thrust it away there on his wedding morning. He tore it open impatiently after this talk. Did not he know very well what must be in it? But it was better to glance at it and be done with it at once. He found it, however, something so very unlike what he supposed, that the little letter completely unmanned him and took his strength away. He read it first with so much surprise that he could scarcely comprehend its meaning, and when he had fully mastered it, burst out into an abrupt break of sound of the most unintelligible description. “What is the matter?” cried Nancy; she was half frightened. She came to the door of the inner room in which she was, and looked out upon him, half dressed, wrapped in the shawl Matilda had lent her. “Are you laughing or crying?” Perhaps it had been a little of both; but at all events it had left the tears in his eyes.