He said—“Bless my soul, Mrs. Cheerlove! This is a great compliment, ma’am—I—(Jemima, tell your mistress)—I know how little you visit, and how greatly your visits are prized. You could not have paid me a more flattering compliment, ma’am, than in calling on my little wife.” Dear me, thought I, I shall not like this man at all—how oppressive he is! I am sure I never thought of paying him a compliment, and wish he would not pay me any. “I hope Mrs. Ringwood is well,” said I. “Well,” said he, running his fingers through his hair, in the Italian way, or in imitation of it, “Emma is well enough, if she would but think herself so;—she wants to go to the sea-side.” “A nice time of year,” said I. “Ah, ha,” said he; “but perhaps you are enough of a classical scholar, Mrs. Cheerlove, to have heard something of ‘_res augusta domi_.’” “I have heard the expression,” said I. “Ah,—you don’t deceive me in that way,” said he; “I’ve heard of Mrs. Cheerlove’s acquirements. You read by stealth, and blush to find it fame.” “I thought fame was acquired by writing rather than by reading,” said I. The absurd man bowed, as if I had meant to compliment him; for editing the _County Advertiser_, I suppose! Oh dear! Luckily for me, Mrs. Ringwood came in, wearing the very smart cap I had seen her manufacturing on a previous occasion. “Oh, I’m so glad to see you!” said she, hastening towards me, all smiles. “I take it so kind of you!” Then I asked how the baby was, and she told me he was cutting his teeth, and went into long details, naturally interesting to her, and very well to tell to me; but that might as well have been spared, I thought, in the presence of Mr. Ringwood. I wondered he did not walk off to his office. Instead of which, he stood, shifting from one foot to the other, running over the paper, and making it crackle prodigiously as he unfolded and refolded it; and at length he said, somewhat abruptly— “My love, all this cannot be very entertaining to Mrs. Cheerlove.” “That is true, Alfred,” said she, with a little flutter which I could not account for. “I was to blame for forgetting Mrs. Cheerlove had no family. How have you been, ma’am, lately? Don’t you think a little sea-air would do you a great deal of good?” I smiled, and said I did not feel any need of it. “Oh, but it braces one so,” said she. “It would strengthen ME, I know, more than all the wine and porter in the world!” “Why should not you try to let your house?” said I. “Many people do.” “’Pon my honour, Mrs. Cheerlove, that’s a capital thought of yours!” burst in Mr. Ringwood. “I wonder it never occurred to me. I’ll tell you what, Emma, if you can let the house for the autumn, you may go to Hardsand the very next day! Put up a ticket to-morrow.” “Oh, thank you, Alfred!” cried she. “I’m sure I’d no idea you would have consented to such a thing, or I would have proposed it before.” (“Don’t believe such a thought ever entered your head,” muttered he).