"Pleasantry, my dear--mere pleasantry," returned the Schoolmaster, tapping his fingers together and smiling sweetly upon Mrs. Idiot. "You didn't finish, Mrs. Pedagog," said the Idiot. "You were telling us how you used to enjoy New-Year's calling before it went out." "Yes," replied Mrs. Pedagog. "It was charming. I used positively to look forward to its coming with delight. We women, Mr. Idiot, found the old custom very delightful." "But the men, Mrs. Pedagog," said the Idiot, "did you ever think of them?" "What else did we think of? What else is there for a woman to think about?" replied Mrs. Pedagog. "Jane!" cried Mr. Pedagog. "_Pleasantry, my dear--mere pleasantry_," returned Mrs. Pedagog, frigidly. And Mr. Pedagog lit a cigar. It is not always pleasant to be quoted. "Still," said the Idiot, "you thought of men only as creatures of the moment--" "Entirely," said Mrs. Pedagog. "And not as creatures of the week following," said the Idiot. "What has that to do with it?" asked Mrs. Pedagog. "Much--from the man's stand-point," returned the Idiot. "His digestion was butchered to make a woman's holiday. Take myself as an example. I used to make New-Year's calls; and to get through with my list by midnight, I had to start in at nine o'clock in the morning." "Nine o'clock is not so early," said Mr. Whitechoker. "It's early for cake and pickled oysters," said the Idiot. "And for chicken salad and wedding-cake, and for lemonade and punch, and for lobster and egg-nog, and for ice-cream and _pâté-de-foie-gras_." "H'm!" said Mr. Pedagog, reflectively. "That's true." "Quite so," observed Mr. Whitechoker, brushing off his vest, upon which the ashes of his cigar had rested. "Especially for the punch." "There was no punch in my house," said Mrs. Pedagog. "Indeed, I always served a very simple luncheon. We did have chicken salad, of course, but the chicken was good and the salad was crisp--" "I'd swear to it," said the Idiot. "And we had egg-nog, but there was more egg than nog in it--" "Again I'd swear to it," said the Idiot, smacking his lips. "And as for the lobsters, nobody ever complained--" "He'd have been a lobster himself who would," said the Idiot. "But that does not prove that no one ever suffered." "And as for the pickled oysters, no one ever suffered from them that I knew of," continued the good lady. "They are harmless eaten in moderation." [Illustration: "'I FELT AS IF I HAD SWALLOWED AS OVERSHOE'"]