He is fresh, open, and good-tempered is Jack
(why in the name of fate shouldn't he be good-
tempered when talking to my wife?), and his
honest eyes (these fellows always have honest
eyes) express unqualified admiration of my wife.
Mine! Let me say it again, it does me good;
my wife, Jack; a dozen times over, mine.) While
she on her part has to-night discarded the cherry-
coloured ribbons, and has come out all over blue
ribbons (I wish Jack wouldn't alter his taste in
ribbons so often, it makes our bills high), and is
altogether most bewitching.

What am I to do? I can't prevent her looking
lovely (and I wouldn't if I could). I can't
stop the supplies. I can't snip away those
distracting ribbons. Sooner than resort to such
measures, let all the Jacks ever heard or thought
of, drink my wines, read my papers (I wish Jack
would read the papers a little more when he
comes here; he knows nothing of politics), or
sing themselves hoarse to my wife's sweet
accompaniment! (Still, if I could think of any half
measure that would prevent Jack from giving us
more than, say, five evenings a week of his
valuable time, I should feel it a relief.)

I have an idea! (I dare say my wife does not
think me capable of it, but I have). Jack likes
pretty women (I have a tolerably good proof of
this every day of my life); suppose I introduce
him to one. I know one who is, strictly speaking
(though I have never found any one who
thought so), far more beautiful than my wife. I
will take Jack there, this very night, and see if
she can act as a corrective to the blue and red
ribbons. I mention it to Jack. He doesn't see
it, of course (I never expected he would); but
he consents to go with me, and he goes. She
doesn't act as a corrective to the blue and red
ribbons (of course she doesn't; he's much too
far gone for that). Jack says she's not "his
style" (his style is probably at the moment
flirting furiously with Dick of my bachelor days),
and the evening is a failure.

We both come away in a bad humour (not
an uncommon occurrence in my case, by-the-
by), and bear with us invitations to an
approaching ball; to which, of course, she will
wish to go. She does wish to go; she says it
will be "delightful." When the night arrives,
she appears in complete ball-room attire, like
a—— ("Vision of light," Jack very kindly
remarks).

Talk of her beauty (though it's really worth
talking of) in her every-day ordinary dress (if any
dress ever looked ordinary on her), what is it
then to what it is now! Well! She looks very
lovely in her feathery whiteness, and I am very
proud of her, and should be quite willing to go
to this or any other ball, and see her enjoy
herself as much as she could, poor child! (were it
not that, down-stairs, waiting for us, is—Jack).

Jack! In the most dandified "get up," with
the most irreproachable tie, and in his hand the
most exquisite bouquet of white camellias.
(They are not for me, but perhaps the next best
thing to a present for oneself should be a
present for one's wife.) I say nothing (chiefly
because I have nothing to say), and we set off.
My wife says, "Should I mind going outside,
because her dress does take up so much room?"
I don't mind, and I go outside.

They (Jack and my wife) are dancing their
seventh round dance. I feel that to-night
either Jack or I will go mad (and that it won't
be Jack). I make a last effort. I tell my wife
that I feel unwell, and hint that I should like to
return home. She is goodness itself. She is
so sorry! The heat of crowded ball-rooms is
the worst thing possible for a headache. I must
go home at once; I need not feel the least
uneasy about her. Jack will see her home. (Will
he? Not if I know it.) I sit on. There they
go again, galop the eighth. (I wish people
would take to dancing alone—hornpipes, for
instance—I could then be content to sit and look
on for any length of time. How young she
looks, how unutterably fair, with her blue eyes
shining, and her soft hair pushed from her
flushed cheek!)

The evening comes to an end at last, and I
take my little wife home (and listen to her innocent
laughter and girlish glee, with a thankful
heart, for my darling is as open and as pure as
the day). Still I must take some measures (for
Jack's sake).

Poor Jack! I think about it all the rest of
the night, and I hit upon a little plan to show
Jack that my little wife's pretty ways and caressing
manners are natural to her, and inseparable
from her, and are bestowed on others as freely
as on him.

I coax Dick (that is, I mention it to Dick, who
jumps at the idea) to come and spend an evening
with us. He arrives about ten minutes before
Jack's usual hour for appearing, and I put him
and my wife down at the piano (which means
that I do nothing of the kind, but that they
establish themselves at that instrument, and I
don't interfere). Jack arrives. Jack evinces
astonishment, bewilderment, discomfiture.
Sitting back on the music-stool, accompanying
without book, for her blue eyes are raised above
the level of the music-desk, is my wife, while
over her leans Dick, singing with the greatest
expression the burden of Balfe's popular song:
"Then you'll remember me." Jack is sulkiness
itself all night, and provokingly proof against
all my little wife's attempts to flatter him
into a more social state of mind. He takes his
leave early, and confides to me at parting that
he thinks he shall go abroad; "for after all, old
fellow," he says, "there is nothing to be done in
England." I agree with him, and hint that I
would like to know in what part of the world he
thinks there is anything to be done, when he
replies, still sulkily busy with his great-coat, "It's
all one; I don't suppose there's anything to be
done anywhere." I retort, "Well, good-bye, old
chum, it you really mean it. I suppose when you
come back you'll be bringing your wife with
you—some foreign beauty, to startle the
natives." Jack catches hold of my arm, and in the
tone of one who delivers a new idea, says, "But