haberdashery, greengrocery, company-promotion, or pork-butchery, is no great key. One day, Edward, coming in, caught sight of the yellow paper-cover of a French book that Bertha was reading. “What, at it again?” said he. “You read too much; it’s not good for people to be always reading.” “Is that your opinion?” “My idea is that a woman oughtn’t to stuff her head with books. You’d be much better out in the open air or doing something useful.” “Is that your opinion?” “Well, I should like to know why you’re always reading?” “Sometimes to instruct myself; always to amuse myself.” “Much instruction you’ll get out of an indecent French novel.” Bertha without answering handed him the book and showed the title; they were the letters of _Madame de Sévigné_. “Well?” he said. “You’re no wiser, dear Edward?” she asked, with a smile: such a question in such a tone, revenged her for much. “You’re none the wiser? I’m afraid you’re very ignorant. You see I’m not reading a novel, and it is not indecent. They are the letters of a mother to her daughter, models of epistolary style and feminine wisdom.” Bertha purposely spoke in rather formal and elaborate a manner. “Oh,” said Edward, somewhat mystified; feeling that he had been confounded, but certain, none the less, that he was in the right. Bertha smiled provokingly. “Of course,” he said, “I’ve got no objection to your reading if it amuses you.” “It’s very good of you to say so.” “I don’t pretend to have any book-learning; I’m a practical man, and it’s not required. In my business you find that the man who reads books, comes a mucker!” “You seem to think that ignorance is creditable.” “It’s better to have a good and pure heart, Bertha, and a clean mind, than any amount of learning.” “It’s better to have a grain of wit than a collection of moral saws.” “I don’t know what you mean by that, but I’m quite content to be as I am, and I don’t want to know a single foreign language. English is quite good enough for me.” “So long as you’re a good sportsman and wash yourself regularly, you think you’ve performed the whole duty of man.” “If there’s one chap I can’t stick, it’s a measly bookworm.” “I prefer him to the hybrid of a professional cricketer and a Turkish-bath man.” “Does that mean me?” “You can take it to yourself if you like,” said Bertha, smiling, “or apply it to a whole class.... Do you mind if I go on reading?” Bertha took up her book; but Edward was the more argumentatively inclined since he saw he had not so far got the better of the contest. “Well, what I must say is, if you want to read, why can’t you read English books? Surely there are enough. I think English people ought to stick to their own country. I don’t pretend to have read any French books, but I’ve never heard anybody deny, that at all events the great majority are indecent, and not the sort of thing a woman should read.” “It’s always incautious to judge from common report,” answered Bertha, without looking up.