Mr. John Howe sat comfortably in his easy-chair, smoking his chibouk.
Mrs. Howe sat opposite to him, dressed in a fashionable suit of black,
with her gaiter-boots on a bronze hound.
"John?"
John smoked away as imperturbably as if he were a bachelor.
"Mr. Howe?"
"Well," replied John, complacently regarding the curling smoke.
"Do you know this is the last day of June?"
"Well," repeated John.
"'Well--well!' Mr. Howe, I do wish you'd stop thinking of that
contemptible political paper you are reading, and attend to me. But
before I begin, I wish to say that I _should_ like a paper in the house
that has something in it. There is not an account of the fashions in
that newspaper from one year's end to the other; in fact, there is
nothing in it but politics--politics; it is the stupidest paper I ever
read. Why don't you take the 'Lady's Garland,' now, or 'The Parlor
Weekly,' or some such interesting periodical, with those lovely
fashion-prints, and cuff and collar patterns, and crochet guides? One
would think you imagined a woman's mind needed no nutriment at all. What
are you laughing at, Mr. Howe?"
"Your thirst for knowledge," replied John.
"Laugh away--it is a great point gained to get one's husband
good-humored. Now, listen: Mrs. St. Pierre has gone into the country, so
has Mrs. Ralph Denys, and Mrs. George Cook goes to-morrow."
"What the deuce has that to do with us?" asked John.
"It is so vulgar to stay in the city in summer," replied Mrs. Howe.
"Nobody does it but tradespeople, and those who can not afford to
migrate. I tell you it is indispensable for people in our station not to
be seen here in the summer months."
"I don't want to be seen," said John, still puffing. "Shut the front
window-shutters; let the silver door-plate grow rusty, and the cobwebs
gather on the blinds and front-door; live in the back part of the house;
never go out except in the evening. That's the way half the fashionables
'go into the country;' confounded cheap way, too," and John laughed
merrily.
"Now, John," said his wife, "where did you pick that up? I took good
care not to tell you that, because I knew I should never hear the last
of it; but even that is better than to be thought unfashionable. Still,
it is not like having a country seat."
"A country-seat!" ejaculated John, wheeling square round, so as to face
his wife; "catch me at it! Eat up by musquitos, kept awake by
bull-frogs, serenaded by tree-toads, bored to death by riding-parties
from the city, who devour your fruit, break off your flowers, and bark
your trees; horses and carriages to keep, two or three extra servants,
conservatory, hot-house, stables, barns, garden-tools, ice-house--shan't
do it, Mrs. Howe;" and John turned his back, put his heels deliberately
up on the window-seat, and resumed his chibouk.
Mrs. Howe smiled a little quiet smile, snapped her finger, as if at some
invisible enemy, and tiptoeing up behind her husband's chair, whispered
something in his conjugal ear.
The _second_ time that magic whisper had conquered Mr. Howe!