The best advice I can offer to my friends under these unpleasant circumstances is, first to try if they cannot persuade their adversaries to make an apology:  and if they will not, why, then, let them make one themselves; for although the making an apology creates a very uneasy sensation, and goes very much against the stomach, yet, depend upon it, a well-directed bullet creates a much more uneasy feeling, and, what is worse, goes directly into it.

We left Mrs Sullivan sobbing in her anger, when her husband bounded out of the room in his heroics.  At the time that he made the threat she was in no humour to regard it; but as her anger gradually subsided, so did her alarm increase.  Notwithstanding that she was a coquette, she was as warmly attached to her husband as he was to her; if she trifled, it was only for her amusement, and to attract that meed of admiration to which she had been accustomed previous to her marriage, and which no woman can renounce on her first entry into that state.  Men cannot easily pardon jealousy in their wives; but women are more lenient towards their husbands.  Love, hand-in-hand with confidence, is the more endearing; yet, when confidence happens to be out of the way, Love will sometimes associate with Jealousy; still, as this disagreeable companion proves that Love is present, and as his presence is what a woman and all a woman asks, she suffers Jealousy, nay, sometimes even becomes partial to him, for the sake of Love.

Now, that Mrs Sullivan had been most unjustly accused, the reader must know, and, moreover, that she had great reason to feel irritated.  When her tears had subsided, for some time she continued in her chair, awaiting, with predetermined dignity, the appearance and apology of Mr Sullivan.  After some time had elapsed, she wondered why he did not come.  Dinner was announced, and she certainly expected to meet him then, and she waited for some minutes to see if he would not take this opportunity of coming up to her;—­but no.  She then presumed that he was still in the sulks, and had sat down to table without her, and therefore, as he would not come—­why, she went; but he was not at the table.  Every minute she expected him:—­Had he been told?—­Where was he?—­He was in the counting-house, was the reply.  Mrs Sullivan swallowed a few mouthfuls, and then returned upstairs.  Tea was made—­announced to Mr Sullivan, yet he came not.  It remained on the table; the cup poured out for him was cold.  The urn had been sent down, with strict injunctions to keep the water boiling, and all was cleared away.  Mrs Sullivan fidgeted and ruminated, and became uneasy.  He never had been at variance for so many hours since their marriage, and all for nothing!  At last the clock struck ten, and she rang the bell.—­“Where is Mr Sullivan?”—­“In the counting-house.”—­“Tell him that I wish to speak with him.”  Mr Sullivan had not answered him, and the door was locked inside.  This intelligence created a little irritation,