“I say, you won’t tell her what I am going to say?” “Of course not.” “Well, I won’t deny that it is well written, and in a high, romantic vein; but—now you won’t tell her?—but before I would have it thought that _I_ wrote that chapter, you might shoot me with a brass-barrelled pistol.” With that he took up the manuscript, and began running his eye over it and reading aloud passages here and there. We both (I am ashamed to say) soon got to laughing, and Charley at last went off into an almost hysterical state, the tears streaming down his cheeks. Just then Alice suddenly re-appeared, and his features snapped together like a steel trap. Charley, in point of fact, was not laughing at his wife, but rather at the inherent absurdity of all love-scenes; but he felt guilty when she entered the room, and looked preternaturally solemn. “What is the matter?” asked Alice. “I thought it was agreed that there were to be no criticisms?” “Yes; but you and Jack have been criticising my chapter already.” “In your absence, of course.” “And I heard you laughing.” “Laughing? What do you suppose there was to laugh at? In point of fact, I said it was capital; didn’t I, Jack?” “Yes; and I agreed with him.” “Really?” asked she, looking from one to the other of us with keen suspicion in her eyes. “Yes; honestly, my dear, it does you credit.” Alice looked pleased. “Of course, however, any one could tell, at a glance, that it was from a woman’s pen.” “I don’t see why,” said she, bridling. “So far from that being the case, I’ll bet you a box of gloves that when the book comes out, the critics will say that not one line of it was written by me, and that I am a purely mythical personage, invented out of the whole cloth.” “Done,” said he; “they will say nothing of the kind. By the way, can you tell me, Alice, why it is that women always put so much hugging and kissing in their books?” “I believe they do,” said Alice, laughing. “Jack would not have dared to make that chapter so—so—warm, in fact. Why, it took away my breath, the brisk way in which you enveloped Mary in the Don’s arms. Jack could not have brought about such a consummation in less than three chapters.” “So much the worse for Jack. It was human nature,—woman’s nature, at any rate.” “Oho! live and learn, Jack!” “I am taking notes.” “And _act_ on them,” rejoined Alice, with a rather malicious allusion to certain recent incidents in my own personal career. “Women like _aggressive_ lovers; so next time—”