“It’s a tremendous infliction, Lillie!”

“Poor man! is it?” said Lillie, putting her arm round his neck, and stroking his whiskers.  “Well, now, he’s a good man to bear it so well, so he is; and they shan’t plague him long.  But, John, you must confess Mrs. Follingsbee is nice:  poor woman! she is mortified with the way Dick will go on; but she can’t do any thing with him.”

“Yes, I can get on with her,” said John.  In fact, John was one of the men so loyal to women that his path of virtue in regard to them always ran down hill.  Mrs. Follingsbee was handsome, and had a gift in language, and some considerable tact in adapting herself to her society; and, as she put forth all her powers to win his admiration, she succeeded.

Grace had done her part to assist John in his hospitable intents, by securing the prompt co-operation of the Fergusons.  The very first evening after their arrival, old Mrs. Ferguson, with Letitia and Rose, called, not formally but socially, as had always been the custom of the two families.  Dick Follingsbee was out, enjoying an evening cigar,—­a circumstance on which John secretly congratulated himself as a favorable feature in the case.  He felt instinctively a sort of uneasy responsibility for his guests; and, judging the Fergusons by himself, felt that their call was in some sort an act of self-abnegation on his account; and he was anxious to make it as easy as possible.  Mrs. Follingsbee was presentable, so he thought; but he dreaded the irrepressible Dick, and had much the same feeling about him that one has on presenting a pet spaniel or pointer in a lady’s parlor,—­there was no answering for what he might say or do.

The Fergusons were disposed to make themselves most amiable to Mrs. Follingsbee; and, with this intent.  Miss Letitia started the subject of her Parisian experiences, as being probably one where she would feel herself especially at home.  Mrs. Follingsbee of course expanded in rapturous description, and was quite clever and interesting.

“You must feel quite a difference between that country and this, in regard to facilities of living,” said Miss Letitia.

“Ah, indeed! do I not?” said Mrs. Follingsbee, casting up her eyes.  “Life here in America is in a state of perfect disorganization.”

“We are a young people here, madam,” said John.  “We haven’t had time to organize the smaller conveniences of life.”

“Yes, that’s what I mean,” said Mrs. Follingsbee.  “Now, you men don’t feel it so very much; but it bears hard on us poor women.  Life here in America is perfect slavery to women,—­a perfect dead grind.  You see there’s no career at all for a married woman in this country, as there is in France.  Marriage there opens a brilliant prospect before a girl:  it introduces her to the world; it gives her wings.  In America, it is clipping her wings, chaining her down, shutting her up,—­no more gayety, no more admiration; nothing but cradles and cribs, and bibs and tuckers, little narrowing, wearing, domestic cares, hard, vulgar domestic slaveries:  and so our women lose their bloom and health and freshness, and are moped to death.”