It was but yesterday, that in order to give him a hint, I pinned my apron to his coat, without considering who was likely to be a sufferer by it; and he, getting up, in his usual nimble way, gave it a rent, and then looked behind him with so much apprehension—­Hands folded, eyes goggling, bag in motion from shoulder to shoulder.  I was vexed too much to make the use of the trick which I had designed, and huffed him.  He made excuses, and looked pitifully; bringing in his soul, to testify that he knew not how it could be.  How it could be!  Wretch!  When you are always squatting upon one’s clothes, in defiance of hoop, or distance.

He went out directly, and brought me in two aprons, either of which was worth twenty of that he so carelessly rent.  Who could be angry with him?  —­I was, indeed, thinking to chide him for this—­As if I were not to be trusted to buy my own clothes; but he looked at me with so good-natured an eye, that I relented, and accepted, with a bow of graciousness, his present; only calling him an odd creature—­And that he is, you know, my dear.

We live very whimsically, in the main:  not above four quarrels, however, and as many more chidings, in a day.  What does the man stay at home for then so much, when I am at home?—­Married people, by frequent absences, may have a chance for a little happiness.  How many debatings, if not direct quarrels, are saved by the good man’s and his meek wife’s seeing each other but once or twice a week!  In what can men and women, who are much together, employ themselves, but in proving and defending, quarrelling and making up?  Especially if they both chance to marry for love (which, thank Heaven, is not altogether my case); for then both honest souls, having promised more happiness to each other than they can possibly meet with, have nothing to do but reproach each other, at least tacitly, for their disappointment—­A great deal of free-masonry in love, my dear, believe me!  The secret, like that, when found out, is hardly worth the knowing.

Well, but what silly rattle is this, Charlotte! methinks you say, and put on one of your wisest looks.

No matter, Harriet!  There may be some wisdom in much folly.  Every one speaks not out so plainly as I do.  But when the novelty of an acquisition or change of condition is over, be the change or the acquisition what it will, the principal pleasure is over, and other novelties are hunted after, to keep the pool of life from stagnating.

This is a serious truth, my dear, and I expect you to praise me for it.  You are very sparing of your praise to poor me; and yet I had rather have your good word, than any woman’s in the world:  or man’s either, I was going to say; but I should then have forgot my brother.  As for Lord G——­, were I to accustom him to obligingness, I should destroy my own consequence:  for then it would be no novelty; and he would be hunting after a new folly.—­Very true, Harriet.