Mrs. Malise. That reminds me of that household. Our latest news from it, through Mr. Feldwick, who belongs to a "Sordello" club, for which my liege had a hankering, only they made him an Irish member, and so he'd no time (you wonder what a Sordello club may be? A society of ladies and gentlemen, dear, who read Sordello with a key, and try to find out whatever it's all about!), and Mr. Feldwick is good enough to keep him _au courant_ of their discoveries and interpretations, and gossips with me about the Domestic Club. About this Mr. Feldwick is concerned. In losing Mrs. Stainton and Miss Hedges, the house lost much in his eyes, and there have been other changes, and all so much for the worse, that Mr. F. is seriously debating whether the place can long continue sufficiently respectable to be honored by the presence of himself and Smut--his pug dog. The people whom Lady ---- brings about the place get queerer and queerer, and the ideas and schemes they broach are----"I'm a man of the world, and something of a philosopher myself," says Mr. F., "and I know human nature has plenty of shady corners; but, aw, really, aw, you know there must be _some_ limit!"--which I was glad to hear from the Truth-Seeker. Young ----'s gone off to see if the Fiji islanders or some other outlandish creatures haven't more morality and tenderness and general virtues than the men and women of civilization; and when I tell you he sailed just after the death by diphtheria of three of poor Mimi's children, leaving her to bear that, as all things, unhelped by him, you'll wish with me, that some coppery, tough old savage'll eat him for his investigating pains! If anything can cure her infatuation, one would think this last stroke of barbarity might, and perhaps then there would be some hope for the singer lover, who has taken care of her, shared her grief--borne all the burden that the miserable new Rousseau refused. The food-reforming trio are gone from the associate household. "The Food-Regenerator" has not the circulation it deserves. Its editor threw up a secretaryship that was profitable, but cramping to a soaring, unmercenary spirit. So the emoluments of the journal were insufficient for the club life, and they've retired to a poor lodging where that weary white cat, I suppose, is trying to keep the heroic little man and all her hungry progeny--ravens, I of course meant to say, only I'd called their mother a cat!--on broad beans and porridge and next to nothing a week, and do the work of an office-boy besides!