“Will never appear before the public. Oh no, I am no authoress. And I must confess to a prejudice against _female_ assistants in our leading periodicals. I think it a province out of our sphere.” “Well, you compliment us,” said he, bowing; “but I own you have not satisfied me. I am convinced you _could_, if you _would_. Dear me! how time runs away, to be sure! I must run off this moment; but one takes no count of time in _your_ presence, Mrs. Cheerlove.” And, presenting his hand to me in a very affable manner, and bowing over mine, he flourished off. “Delightful!” cried Mrs. Ringwood, taking a deep breath; “how you’ve drawn him out! Oh, I do so enjoy good conversation! But I’m no converser—never was. Always such a simple little thing!” I knew not what to say; and she almost immediately went on in a dreamy sort of way— “He used to tell me before marriage, he loved simplicity; so I wasn’t afraid, you know. But now he likes intellect better.” “But why should you despair of pleasing him, even then?” “Oh, he knocks me down so! I don’t mean literally,” cried she, seeing my look of dismay; “but he has a way of _setting_ people down, as the saying is, whenever they talk in a way that does not please him; and if I am chatting a little, and he wants to cut it short, he says, ‘My dear, I beg your pardon,’ quite politely; and takes the lead, and keeps it—‘My _dear_,’ not ‘My love.’ It was so pleasant to hear him say, ‘My love!’ to-day.” “Well,” said I, “you will be busy now, and I hope soon to hear of your having let your house.” And so I talked a little about various watering-places, as if she might pick and choose where she liked; though, after all, very probably, she will have no choice but Hardsand. And I told her what a cheerful, bracing place Hardsand was considered. But, as I rode home, I thought that, perhaps I had done the little woman no kindness, after all; for her efforts to let her house might only end in disappointment. And the more I thought of blinds, scrapers, &c., wanting repair, crumb-cloths wanting washing, and wine-glasses wanting replacing, the less chance there appeared to me of anybody’s being attracted by the house. “A pennyworth of putty and a pennyworth of paint,” said a nobleman, in the last century, “would make my countess as handsome as any at court.” Certes, a pennyworth of putty and a pennyworth of paint, or something equivalent, will often go far towards making a house look tidy and respectable. But, in Mrs. Ringwood’s domain, _il poco piú_ is sadly wanting. A man may laugh at an Irish waiter who confidentially whispers to him, as he hands him his venison, that “there is no currant jelly on the sideboard, but plenty of lobster-sauce,” but he will not endure it from his wife. * * * * *