There could scarcely be a stronger proof of the melancholy fact that poor Bessie was not now for the first time cognisant of her husband’s tricks and dodges than the little surprise she evinced at Colonel Fred’s spirited suggestion. She listened at first in silence, thinking over in her mind the pros and cons regarding the chances of successfully carrying out his plans: while not for a moment did it occur to her to raise an objection on high moral grounds to the trap which was about to be set for the unwary. The class of wives of which Mrs. Norcott is the type are, as a rule, a cowardly class; and, moreover, they are women who, taking _perhaps_ too lowly an estimate of themselves, and _certainly_ too high a one of their partners, are ready to buy the rare smiles, and equally rare meed of approbation which falls to their lot, by a mean and truculent subserviency, which in reality gains for them neither affection nor esteem. As is usual, however, with persons who are destitute of moral courage, Mrs. Norcott would have gladly compromised with her conscience, and changed the whole lie for a half one. “If it had only been last week,” she said musingly, “when you had that bad cold upon your chest, it might have been done quite easily.” “Easily! Of course it could, and so I suppose it can now. Come, let us have the table cleared. Gad, how dirty the lodging-house drab is before the small hours come round again! I say, Polly,” to the parlour-maid, who entered in answer to the summons of the bell, and whom, being rather good-looking, he took the trouble to lecture--“I say, Polly, what is soap a pound, and hair-brushes? What do you think you were given such pretty hair for, if it was never to be oiled? If I were you--”