“Two bottles, if those uncouth little flattened flasks can be called bottles. And since you are resolved he is to be entertained like a 'Prince Russe,' I 'll actually treat him to a dish of maccaroni of my own invention. You remember, George, Mrs. Monkton was going to withdraw her subscription from the Church when she ate of it, and remained a firm Protestant.” “Julia, Julia!” said he, in a half-reproving tone. “I am simply citing an historical fact, but you'll provoke me to say much worse if you stand there with that censorial face. As if I did n't know how wrong it was to speak lightly of a lady who subscribes two hundred francs a year.” “There are very few who do so,” said he, with a sigh. “My poor brother,” said she, caressingly, “it is a very hard case to be so poor, and we with such refined tastes and such really nice instincts; we, who would like a pretty house, and a pretty garden, and a pretty little equipage, and who would give pretty little dinners, with the very neatest cut glass and china, and be, all the time, so cultivated and so simple, so elevated in tone and so humble in spirit. There, go away, and look after some fruit--do something, and don't stand there provoking me to talk nonsense. That solemn look made me ten times more silly than I ever intended to be.” “I 'm sure,” said L'Estrange, thoughtfully, “he has something to tell me of the coal-mine.” “Ah, if I thought that, George? If I thought he brought us tidings of a great 'dividend'--is n't that the name for the thing the people always share amongst themselves, out of somebody else's money? So I have shocked you, at last, into running away; and now for the cares of the household.” Now, though she liked to quiz her brother about his love of hospitality and the almost reckless way in which he would spend money to entertain a guest, it was one of her especial delights to play hostess, and receive guests with whatever display their narrow fortune permitted. Nor did she spare any pains she could bestow in preparing to welcome Mr. Cutbill, and her day was busily passed between the kitchen, the garden, and the drawing-room, ordering, aiding, and devising with a zeal and activity that one might have supposed could only have been evoked in the service of a much honored guest. “Look at my table, George,” said she, “before you go to dress for dinner, and say if you ever saw anything more tasteful. There's a bouquet for you; and see how gracefully I have twined the grape-leaves round these flasks. You'll fancy yourself Horace entertaining Maecenas. Mr. Cutbill is certainly not very like him--but no matter. Nor is our little Monte Oliveto exactly Falernian.” “It is quite beautiful, Ju, all of it,” said he, drawing her towards him and kissing her; but there was a touch of sadness in his voice, as in his look, to which she replied with a merry laugh, and said,--