—That could be borne, however, for perhaps he has promised his fortune to Peggy. Peggy, then, will be rich (and the thought made me rub my shins, which were now getting comfortably warm upon the fire-dogs). Then, she will be forever talking of _her_ fortune; and pleasantly reminding you on occasion of a favorite purchase—how lucky that _she_ had the means; and dropping hints about economy; and buying very extravagant Paisleys. She will annoy you by looking over the stock list at breakfast time; and mention quite carelessly to your clients, that she is interested in _such_, or such a speculation. She will be provokingly silent when you hint to a tradesman that you have not the money by you for his small bill—in short, she will tear the life out of you, making you pay in righteous retribution of annoyance, grief, vexation, shame and sickness of heart, for the superlative folly of “marrying rich.” —But if not rich, then poor. Bah! the thought made me stir the coals; but there was still no blaze. The paltry earnings you are able to wring out of clients by the sweat of your brow, will now be all _our_ income; you will be pestered for pin-money, and pestered with your poor wife’s relations. Ten to one she will stickle about taste—“Sir Visto’s”—and want to make this so pretty, and that so charming, if she _only_ had the means; and is sure Paul (a kiss) can’t deny his little Peggy such a trifling sum, and all for the common benefit. Then she, for one, means that _her_ children shan’t go a-begging for clothes—and another pull at the purse. Trust a poor mother to dress her children in finery! Perhaps she is ugly—not noticeable at first, but growing on her, and (what is worse) growing faster on you. You wonder why you didn’t see that vulgar nose long ago: and that lip—it is very strange, you think, that you ever thought it pretty. And then—to come to breakfast, with her hair looking as it does, and you not so much as daring to say—“Peggy, _do_ brush your hair!” Her foot, too—not very bad when decently _chaussée_—but now, since she’s married, she does wear such infernal slippers! And yet, for all this, to be prigging up for an hour, when any of my old chums come to dine with me! “Bless your kind hearts! my dear fellows,” said I, thrusting the tongs into the coals, and speaking out loud, as if my voice could reach from Virginia to Paris—“not married yet!” Perhaps Peggy is pretty enough—only shrewish. —No matter for cold coffee; you should have been up before. What sad, thin, poorly-cooked chops, to eat with your rolls! —She thinks they are very good, and wonders how you can set such an example to your children. The butter is nauseating.