confess at once that Miss Sticker is a fright.
Far be it from me to give pain where the
thing can by any means be avoided; but if I
were to say that Miss Sticker would ever see
forty again, I should be basely deceiving the
public, and be consequently refused admission
into the pages of this journal. I have the
strongest imaginable objection to mentioning
the word petticoats; but if that is the only
possible description of Miss Sticker's figure
which conveys a true notion of its nature and
composition, what am I to do? Perhaps I
had better give up describing the poor thing's
personal appearance. I shall get into deeper
and deeper difficulties, if I attempt to go on.
The very last time I was in her company, we
were strolling about Regent Street, with my
sister's husband for escort. As we passed
a hairdresser's shop, the dear, simple man,
looked in, and asked me what those long tails
of hair were for, that he saw hanging up in
the windows. Miss Sticker, poor soul, was
on his arm, and heard him put the question.
I thought I should have dropped.

This is, I believe, what you call a digression.
I shall let it stop in, however, because
it will probably explain to the judicious
reader why I carefully avoid the subject of
Miss Sticker's hair. Suppose I pass on next
to what is more importantly connected with
the object of these pages—I mean, to her
character? Some extremely sensible man
has observed somewhere, that a Bore is a
person with one idea. Exactly so. Miss
Sticker is a person with one idea. Unhappily
for society, her notion is, that she is bound by
the laws of politeness to join in every
conversation, no matter on what topic, which
happens to be proceeding within the range
of her ears. She has no ideas, no information,
no flow of language, no tact, no power
of ever saying the right word at the right
time, even by chance. And yet, she will
converse, as she calls it. "A gentlewoman,
my dear, becomes a mere cipher in society
unless she can converse." That is her way
of putting it; and I deeply regret to add,
she is one of the few people who preach what
they practise. She first checks the conversation
by making a remark which has no
kind of relation to the topic under discussion.
She next stops it altogether by being
suddenly at a loss for some particular word
which nobody can suggest. At last the word
is given up; another subject is started in
despair; and the company become warmly
interested in it. Just at that moment, Miss
Sticker finds the lost word, screams it out
triumphantly in the middle of the talk, and
so scatters the second subject to the winds,
exactly as she has already scattered the
first.

The last time I called at my aunt's—I
merely mention this by way of example—I
found Miss Sticker there, and three delightful
men. One was a clergyman of the dear old
purple-faced, pudsey, Port-wine school. The
other two would have looked military, if one
of them had not been an engineer, and the
other an editor of a newspaper. We should
have had some delightful conversation if the
Lady-Bore had not been present. In some
way, I really forget how, we got to talking
about giving credit and paying debts; and
the dear old clergyman, with his twinkling
eye and his jolly voice, treated us to a little
anecdote on the subject.

"Talking about that," he began, "I married
a man the other day for the third time.
Man in my parish. Capital cricketer when
he was young enough to run. 'What's your
fee?' says he. 'Licensed marriage?' says I.
'Guinea, of course.'—'I've got to bring you
your tithes in three weeks, sir,' says he.
'Give me tick till then.'—'All right,' says I,
and married him. In three weeks he comes
and pays his tithes like a man. 'Now, sir,'
says he, 'about this marriage-fee, sir? I do
hope you'll kindly let me off at half-price, for
I've married a bitter bad 'un this time. I've
got a half-a-guinea about me, sir, if you'll
only please to take it. She isn't worth a
farthing more—on the word of a man, she
isn't, sir!' I looked hard in his face, and
saw two scratches on it, and took the half-
guinea, more out of pity than anything else.
Lesson to me, however. Never marry a man
on credit again, as long as I live. Ready
money—eh? Ha! ha! ha! O, yes! ready
money next time!"

While he was speaking, I had my eye on
Miss Sticker. Thanks to the luncheon which
was on the table, she was physically incapable
of "conversing" while our reverend friend
was telling his humorous little anecdote.
Just as he had done, and just as the editor
of the newspaper was taking up the subject,
she finished her chicken, and turned round
from the table.

"Ready money, my dear sir, as you say,"
continued the editor. "You exactly describe
our great principle of action in the Press.
Some of the most extraordinary and amusing
things happen with subscribers to
newspapers——"

"Ah, the Press!" burst in Miss Sticker,
beginning to converse. "What a wonderful
engine! and how grateful we ought to feel
when we get the paper so regularly every
morning at breakfast. The only question is—
at least, many people think so—I mean with
regard to the Press, the only question is
whether it ought to be——"

Here Miss Sticker lost the next word, and
all the company had to look for it.

"With regard to the Press, the only question
is, whether it ought to be——O, dear, dear,
dear me!" cried Miss Sticker, lifting both
her hands in despair, "what is the word?"

"Cheaper?" suggested our reverend friend.
"Hang it, ma'am! it can hardly be that,
when it is down to a penny already."

"O no; not cheaper," said Miss Sticker.

"More independent?" inquired the editor.