All seemed to infer, that the amicable gauntlet, which had been thrown down, having been courteously taken up, the ungloved hands were forthwith to be grasped in token of good fellowship; we had left our names for them, and by the invitations that poured in upon us, they seemed to say with Juliet—­

  “And for thy name, which is no part of thee,
  Take all myself.”

No man, not even a provincial, can visit every body; and it seems but fair, that if a selection is to be made, all should interchange the hospitalities of life with those persons in whose society they feel the greatest enjoyment.

Many a dinner, therefore, did we decline—­many a route did we reject; my husband’s popularity tottered, and the inviters, though they no longer dinned their dinners in our ears, and teazed us with their “teas,” vowed secret vengeance, and muttered “curses, not loud, but deep.”

I have hinted that we had no scandalous capabilities; and though slander flashed around us, we seldom admitted morning visiters, and our street-door was a non-conductor.

But our next door neighbours were maiden ladies, who had been younger, and, to use a common term of commiseration, had seen better days—­by which, I mean the days of bloom, natural hair, partners, and the probability of husbands.

Their vicinity to us was an infinite comfort to the town, for those who were unable to gain admittance at our door to disturb our business and desires,

  “For every man has business and desire,
  Such as they are,”

were certain of better success at our neighbours’, where they at least could gain some information about us “from eye-witnesses who resided on the spot.”

My sins were numbered, so were my new bonnets; and for a time my husband was pitied, because “he had an extravagant wife;” but when it was ascertained that his plate was handsome, his dinner satisfactory in its removes, and comme il faut in its courses, those whose feet had never been within our door, saw clearly “how it must all end, and really felt for our trades-people.”

I have acknowledged that I had written romances; the occupation was to me a source of amusement; and as I had been successful, my husband saw no reason why he should discourage me.  A scribbling fool, in or out of petticoats, should be forbidden the use of pen, ink, and paper; but my husband had too much sense to heed the vulgar cry of “blue stocking.”  After a busy month passed in London, we saw my new novel sent forth to the public, and then returned to our mansion at Pumpington Wells.