But I find the things I have to say so crowd upon me, that I must either proceed to arrange them under heads,--which would immediately deprive them of any right to a place in my story,--or keep them till they are naturally swept from the bank of my material by the slow wearing of the current of my narrative. I prefer the latter, because I think my readers will. What with one thing and another, this thing to be done and that thing to be avoided, there was nothing more said about the dinner-party, until my father came to see us in the month of July. I was to have paid them a visit before then; but things had come in the way of that also, and now my father was commissioned by my mother to arrange for my going the next month. As soon as I had shown my father to his little room, I ran down to Percivale. "Papa is come," I said. "I am delighted to hear it," he answered, laying down his palette and brushes. "Where is he?" "Gone up stairs," I answered. "I wouldn't disturb you till he came down again." He answered with that world-wide English phrase, so suggestive of a hopeful disposition, "All right!" And with all its grumbling, and the _tristesse_ which the French consider its chief characteristic, I think my father is right, who says, that, more than any other nation, England has been, is, and will be, saved by hope. Resuming his implements, my husband added,-- "I haven't quite finished my pipe,--I will go on till he comes down." Although he laid it on his pipe, I knew well enough it was just that little bit of paint he wanted to finish, and not the residue of tobacco in the black and red bowl. "And now we'll have our dinner party," I said. I do believe, that, for all the nonsense I had talked about returning invitations, the real thing at my heart even then was an impulse towards hospitable entertainment, and the desire to see my husband merry with his friends, under--shall I say it?--the protecting wing of his wife. For, as mother of the family, the wife has to mother her husband also; to consider him as her first-born, and look out for what will not only give him pleasure but be good for him. And I may just add here, that for a long time my bear has fully given in to this. "And who are you going to ask?" he said. "Mr. and Mrs. Morley to begin with, and"-- "No, no," I answered. "We are going to have a jolly evening of it, with nobody present who will make you either anxious or annoyed. Mr. Blackstone,"--he wasn't married then,--"Miss Clare, I think,--and"-- "What do you ask her for?" "I won't if you don't like her, but"-- "I haven't had a chance of liking or disliking her yet." "That is partly why I want to ask her,--I am so sure you would like her if you knew her." "Where did you tell me you had met her?" "At Cousin Judy's. I must have one lady to keep me in countenance with so many gentlemen, you know. I have another reason for asking her, which I would rather you should find out than I tell you. Do you mind?"