“Dear Mr. P.,” said I, “you’ll feel much better when you have slept. Besides, why do you say such things? Mustn’t we see our friends, I should like to know; and if we do, are you going to let your wife receive them in a manner inferior to old Mrs. Podge or Mrs. Croesus? People will accuse you of meanness, and of treating me ill; and if some persons hear that you have reduced your style of living, they will begin to suspect the state of your affairs. Don’t make any rash vows, Mr. P.,” said I, “but go to sleep.” (Do you know that speech was just what Mrs. Croesus told me she had said to her husband under similar circumstances?) Mr. P. fairly groaned, and I heard that short, strong little word that sometimes inadvertently drops out of the best regulated mouths, as young Gooseberry Downe says when he swears before his mother. Do you know Mrs. Settum Downe? Charming woman, but satirical. Mr. P. groaned, and said some more ill-natured things, until the clock struck nine, and he was obliged to get up. I should be sorry to say to anybody but you, dearest, that I was rather glad of it; for I could then fall asleep at my ease; and these little connubial felicities (I think they call them) are so tiresome. But everybody agreed it was a beautiful ball; and I had the great gratification of hearing young Lord Mount Ague (you know you danced with him, love) say that it was quite the same thing as a ball at Buckingham Palace, except, of course, in size, and the number of persons, and dresses, and jewels, and the plate, and glass, and supper, and wines, and furnishing of the rooms, and lights, and some of those things, which are naturally upon a larger scale at a palace than in a private house. But, he said, excepting such things, it was quite as fine. I am afraid that Lord Mount Ague flatters; just a little bit you know. Yes; and there was young Major Staggers, who said that “Decidedly it was _the_ party of the season.” “How odd,” said Mrs. Croesus, to whom I told it, and, I confess, with a little pride. “What a sympathetic man: that is, for a military man, I mean. Would you believe, dear Mrs. Potiphar, that he said precisely the same thing to me two days after my ball?” Now, Caroline, dearest, _perhaps_ he did! With all these pleasant things said about one’s party, I cannot see that it is such a dismal thing as Mr. P. tries to make out. After one of his solemn talks, I asked Mr. Cheese what he thought of balls, whether it was so very wicked to dance, and go to parties, if one only went to church twice a day on Sundays. He patted his lips a moment with his handkerchief, and then he said,--and, Caroline, you can always quote the Rev. Cream Cheese as authority,-- “Dear Mrs. Potiphar, it is recorded in Holy Scripture that the King danced before the Lord.” Darling, _if anything should happen,_ I don’t believe he would object much to our dancing.