“But, my dear,” rejoined Mrs. Applebite, “Mama has had so much experience that her opinion is worth listening to; I know that you give the preference to—­”

“Vaccination!” interrupted Collumpsion.

“And so do I; but we have heard of grown-up people—­who had always considered themselves secure—­taking the small pox, dear.”

“To be sure we have,” chimed in Mrs. Waddledot; “and it’s a very dreadful thing, after indulgent and tender parents have been at the expense of nursing, clothing, physicking, teaching music, dancing, Italian, French, geography, drawing, and the use of the globes, to a child, to have it carried off because a misguided fondness has insisted upon—­”

“Vaccination!” shouted pater Collumpsion.

“Exactly!” continued the “wife’s mother.”  “Now inoculate at once, say I, before the child’s short-coated.”

Agamemnon rose from his seat, and advancing deliberately and solemnly to the table at which his wife and his wife’s mother were seated, he slowly raised his dexter arm above his head, and then, having converted his hand into a fist, he dashed his contracted digitals upon the rosewood as though he dared not trust himself with more than one word, and that one was—­“Vaccination!”

Mrs. Waddledot’s first impulse was to jump out of her turban, in which she would have succeeded had not the mystic rolls of gauze which constituted that elaborate head-dress been securely attached to the chestnut “front” with which she had sought for some years to cheat the world into a forgetfulness of her nativity.

“I was warned of this!  I was warned of this!” exclaimed the disarranged woman, as soon as she obtained breath enough for utterance.  “But I wouldn’t believe it.  I was told that the member for Puddingbury had driven one wife to her grave and the other to drinking.—­I was told that it would run in the family, and that Mr. A.C. Applebite would be no better than Mr. I. Applebite!”

“Oh!  Mama—­you really wrong Aggy,” exclaimed Theresa.

“It’s lucky for you that you think so, my dear.  If ever there was an ill-used woman, you are that unhappy individual.  Oh, that ever—­I—­should live—­to see a child of mine—­have a child of hers vaccinated against her wish!” and here Mrs. Waddledot (as it is emphatically styled) burst into tears; not that we mean to imply that she was converted into an explosive jet d’eau, but we mean that she—­she—­what shall we say?—­she blubbered.

It is really surprising how very sympathetic women are on all occasions of weeping, scolding, and scandalising; and accordingly Mrs. Applebite “opened the fountains of her eyes,” and roared in concert with her mama.

Agamemnon felt that he was an injured man—­injured in the tenderest point—­his character for connubial kindness; and he secretly did what many husbands have done openly—­he consigned Mrs. Waddledot to the gentleman who is always represented as very black, because where he resides there is no water to wash with.