Here Mr. Cheese coughed a little, and patted his mouth with his cambric. But what he said was very true. I _should_ like to come out with the wig--I mean upon the coachman; it would so put down the Settum Downes. But I’m sure old Pot wouldn’t have it. He lets me do a great deal. But there is a line which I feel he won’t let me pass. I mentioned my fears to Mr. Cheese. “Well,” he said, “Mr. Potiphar may be right. I remember an expression of my carnal days about ‘coming it too strong.’ which seems to me to be applicable just here.” After a little more talk, I determined to have red plush breeches, with a black cord at the side--white stockings--low shoes with large buckles--a yellow waistcoat, with large buttons--lappels to the pockets--and a purple coat, very full and fine, bound with gold lace--and the hat banded with a full gold rogette. Don’t you think that would look well in Hyde Park? And, darling Carrie, why shouldn’t we have in Broadway what they have in Hyde Park? When Mr. P. came in, I told him all about it. He laughed a good deal, and said, “What next?” So I am not sure that he would be so very hard upon the wig. The next morning I had appointed to see the new footman, and as Mr. P. went out he turned and said to me, “Is your footman coming to-day?” “Yes,” I answered. “Well,” said he, “don’t forget the calves. You know that everything in the matter of livery depends upon the calves.” And he went out laughing silently to himself, with--actually, Carrie--a tear in his eye. But it was true, wasn’t it? I remember in all the books and pictures how much is said about the calves. In advertisements, etc., it is stated that none but well-developed calves need apply, at least it is so in England, and, if I have a livery, I am not going to stop half-way. My duty was very clear. When Mr. Cheese came in, I said I felt awkward in asking a servant about his calves,--it sounded so queerly. But I confessed that it was necessary. “Yes, the path of duty is not always smooth, dear Mrs. Potiphar. It is often thickly strewn with thorns,” said he, as he sank back in the _fautteuil_, and put down his _petit verre of Marasquin_. Just after he had gone the new footman was announced. I assure you, although it is ridiculous, I felt quite nervous. But when he came in, I said calmly-- “Well, James, I am glad you have come.” “Please, ma’am, my name is Henry,” said he. I was astonished at his taking me up so, and said, decidedly--“James, the name of my footman is always James. You may call yourself what you please, I shall always call you James.” The idea of the man’s undertaking to arrange my servants’ names for me! Well, he showed me his references, which were very good, and I was quite satisfied. But there was the terrible calf business that must be attended to. I put it off a great while, but I had to begin. “Well, James!”--and there I stopped. “Yes, ma’am,” said he. “I wish--yes--ah!”--and I stopped again. “Yes, ma’am,” said he.