"Boasting braggart! 'Tis false, and you know it! Good-looking as _me_!

How you've changed your tune! You know I was called the 'Belle of Brompton!' Thank heaven, I don't need you to satisfy me of my good looks. Men of ten times your taste have pronounced upon them; _and may yet_!"

The last speech was delivered in front of a cheval glass, before which the speaker had stopped, as if to admire her person.

Certainly the glass gave out an image that did not contradict what she had said.

"May yet!" echoed the satiated rake in a drawl, that betokened either indifference, or its assumption. "I wish some of them _would_!"

"Indeed! Then some of them _shall_!"

"Oh! I'm agreeable. Nothing would give me greater pleasure. Thank God! we've got into a country whose people take a common-sense view of these questions, and where divorce can be obtained, not only on the quiet, but cheaper than the licence itself! So far from standing in your way, madam, I'll do all I can to assist you. I think we can honestly plead 'incompatibility of temper'?"

"She'd be an angel that couldn't plead that with you."

"There's no danger, then, of your being denied the plea, unless fallen angels be excepted."

"Mean insulter! Oh, mercy! to think I've thrown myself away on this worthless man?"

"Thrown yourself away? Ha! ha! ha! What were you when I found you? A waif, if not worse. The darkest day of my life was that on which I picked you up!"

"Scoundrel!"

The term "scoundrel" is the sure and close precursor of a climax. When passed between two gentlemen, it not unfrequently leads to a mutual pulling of noses. From a lady to a gentleman the result is of course different, though in any case it conducts to a serious turn in the conversation. Its effect in the present instance was to end it altogether.

With only an exclamation for rejoinder, the husband sprang to his feet, and commenced pacing up and down one side of the room. The wife, already engaged in like perambulation, had possession of the other.

In silence they crossed and recrossed; at intervals exchanging angry glances, like a tiger and tigress, making the tour of their cage.

For ten minutes or more was this mute, unsocial promenade continued.

The man was the first to tire of it, and once more resuming his seat, he took a "regalia" from his case, set fire to the weed, and commenced smoking.

The woman, as if determined not to be outdone in the way of indifference, produced _her_ cigar-case, selected from it a tiny "queen," and, sinking down into a rocking-chair, sent forth a cloud of smoke that soon rendered her almost as invisible as Juno in her _nimbus_.

There was no longer an exchange of glances--it was scarce possible--and for ten minutes more not any of speech. The wife was silently nursing her wrath, while the husband appeared to be engaged on some abstruse problem that occupied all his intellect. At length an exclamation, escaping involuntarily from his lips, seemed to declare its solution; while the cheerful cast of his countenance, just perceptible through the smoke, told of his having reached a conclusion that was satisfactory to him.

Taking the regalia from between his teeth, and puffing away the cloud that intervened, he leant toward his wife, at the same time pronouncing her name in diminutive--

"Fan!"

The form, with the accent in which it was uttered, seemed to say that on his side the storm had blown over. His chafed spirit had become tranquillised under the influence of the nicotine.

The wife, as if similarly affected, removed the "queen" from her lips; and in a tone that smacked of forgiveness, gave out the rejoinder:

"Dick!"

"An idea has occurred to me," said he, resuming the conversation in a shape entirely new. "A grand idea!"

"Of its grandeur I have my doubts. I shall be better able to judge when you've imparted it. You intend doing that, I perceive."

"I do," he answered, without taking notice of the sarcasm.

"Let's hear it, then."

"Well, Fan, if there's anything in this world clearer than another, it's that by getting married we've both made a mucker of it."

"That's clear as daylight--to me at least."

"Then you can't be offended if I take a similar view of the question.

We married one another for love. There we did a stupid thing, since neither of us could afford it."

"I suppose I know all that. Tell me something new."

"More than stupid," pursued the worthless husband; "it was an act of absolute madness!"

"Most certainly, on my part."

"On the part of both of us. Mind you, I don't say I repent making you my wife. Only in one way, and that is because I've spoiled your chances in life. I am aware you _could_ have married richer men."

"Oh, you admit that, do you?"

"I do. And you must admit I could have married richer women."

"Lady Scratch, for example."

"No matter. Lady Scratch could have kept me from this hard scratch for a living, which promises to be still harder. You know there's no resource left me but the little skill I've acquired in manipulating pasteboard. I've come over here under the pleasant hallucination I should find plenty of pigeons, and that the hawks only existed on our side of the Atlantic. Well, I've been round with my introductions, and what's the result? To discover that the dullest flat in New York would be a sharp in the saloons of London. I've dropped a hundred pounds already, and don't see much chance of taking them up again."

"And what _do_ you see, Dick? What's this grand idea?"

"Are you prepared to listen to a proposal?"

"How condescending of you to ask me! Let me hear it. Whether I may feel inclined to agree to it is another thing."

"Well, my dear Fan, your own words have suggested it, so you can't reproach me for originating it."

"If it be an _idea_, you needn't fear that. What words, may I ask?"

"You said you wished I _had_ married my lady."

"I did. What is there in that?"

"More than you think for. A whole world of meaning."

"I meant what I said."

"In spite only, Fan."

"In earnest."