"
We have known pleasanter _tete-a-tetes_--have we not?--than that which
we undergo that evening at dinner, though our companion seems disposed
to be especially lively. We have not much appetite; but our _carissima
sposa_ tells us "not to drink any more claret, or we shall never be fit
to take her to Lady Shechem's _conversazione_." Of all nights in the
year, would she let us off duty on this one? "There are to be some very
pleasant people there," she says, "though none, perhaps, that _you
particularly care about_." (Thank you, my love; I understand that
good-natured allusion perfectly, and am proportionately grateful.) Her
voice sounds shriller than usual as she says this, and leaves us to put
some last touches to her toilette. So we order a fresh bottle,
notwithstanding the warning, and fall to thinking. How low and soft
_that other_ voice was, and, even when a little reproachful, how rarely
sweet! _She_ would scarcely have invented that last taunt if matters
had turned out differently. Then we think of our respected
father-in-law, Sir Joseph Leyburn, of Harran Park--a mighty county
magistrate and cattle-breeder. He got Ishmael Deadeye, the poacher,
transported last year, and took the prize for Devons at the Great
Mesopotamian Agricultural with a brindled bull.
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