by the sale of vinegar) she was never able to explain.  Why she lamented him, with tears of sincere sorrow, when he died after two years of married life, was a mystery which puzzled her nearest and dearest friends.  And why when she indulged (a little too frequently) in recollections of her married life, she persisted in putting obscure Mr. Presty on a level with distinguished Mr. Norman, was a secret which this remarkable woman had never been known to reveal.  Presented by their widow with the strictest impartiality to the general view, the characters of these two husbands combined, by force of contrast, the ideal of manly perfection.  That is to say, the vices of Mr. Norman were the virtues of Mr. Presty; and the vices of Mr. Presty were the virtues of Mr. Norman.

Returning to the sitting-room after bidding Kitty goodnight, Mrs. Linley discovered the old lady asleep, and saw that the book on her mother’s lap was sliding off.  Before she could check the downward movement, the book fell on the floor, and Mrs. Presty woke.

“Oh, mamma, I am so sorry!  I was just too late to catch it.”

“It doesn’t matter, my dear.  I daresay I should go to sleep again, if I went on with my novel.”

“Is it really as dull as that?”

“Dull?” Mrs. Presty repeated.  “You are evidently not aware of what the new school of novel writing is doing.  The new school provides the public with soothing fiction.”

“Are you speaking seriously, mamma?”

“Seriously, Catherine—­and gratefully.  These new writers are so good to old women.  No story to excite our poor nerves; no improper characters to cheat us out of our sympathies, no dramatic situations to frighten us; exquisite management of details (as the reviews say), and a masterly anatomy of human motives which—­I know what I mean, my dear, but I can’t explain it.”

“I think I understand, mamma.  A masterly anatomy of human motives which is in itself a motive of human sleep.  No; I won’t borrow your novel just now.  I don’t want to go to sleep; I am thinking of Herbert in London.”

Mrs. Presty consulted her watch.

“Your husband is no longer in London,” she announced; “he has begun his journey home.  Give me the railway guide, and I’ll tell you when he will be here tomorrow.  You may trust me, Catherine, to make no mistakes.  Mr. Presty’s wonderful knowledge of figures has been of the greatest use to me in later life.  Thanks to his instructions, I am the only person in the house who can grapple with the intricacies of our railway system.  Your poor father, Mr. Norman, could never understand time-tables and never attempted to conceal his deficiencies.  He had none of the vanity (harmless vanity, perhaps) which led poor Mr. Presty to express positive opinions on matters of which he knew nothing, such as pictures and music.  What do you want, Malcolm?”

The servant to whom this question was addressed answered:  “A telegram, ma’am, for the mistress.”