has toiled into the country to gather me the flowers at early dawn. I do not find, strange as it may seem, that they relieve my mind at all; but of course I say, "Thank you."--"Thank _you_, sir," rejoins Mrs. Glutch--for it is a part of this woman's system of oppressive politeness always to thank me for thanking her. She invariably contrives to have the last word, no matter in what circumstances the courteous contention which is the main characteristic of our daily intercourse, may take its rise. Let us say, for instance, that she comes into my room and gets into my way (which she always does) at the very time when she ought to be out of it--her first words are necessarily, "I beg pardon." I growl (not so brutally as I could wish, being weak), "Never mind!"--"Thank you, sir," says Mrs. Glutch, and coughs faintly, and sighs, and delays going out as long as possible. Or, take another example:--"Mrs. Glutch, this plate's dirty."--"I am much obliged to you, sir, for telling me of it."--"It isn't the first dirty plate I have had."--"Really now, sir?"--"You may take away the fork; for that is dirty too."--"Thank you, sir."--Oh for one hour of my little Parisian portress! Oh for one day's respite from the politeness of Mrs. Glutch! Let me try if I cannot get away from the subject for a little while. What have I to say about the other lodgers in the house? Not much; for how can I take any interest in people who never make inquiries after my health, though they must all know, by the frequent visits of the doctor and the chemist's boy, that I am ill?