“In the evening the weather cleared a little, and we went out for a stroll.  A stroll through the streets of Fontainebleau is not one of the pleasantest exploits in the world.  I thought every moment that my wife (delightful word, that thrills me to the finger tips as I write it) would sprain an ankle, for the paving is simply a heap of round stones thrown out of a cart; but she stepped so nimbly and lightly, that no harm came to her.  I wish, my dear Mac, you could hear her conversation.  From morning till night she prattles away, hopping, skipping, and jumping from one subject to another, and saying something sensible or droll on each.  You must know that Carrie has an immense fund of humour.  Her imitations of people make me almost die with laughter.  You remember Mrs. Calfsfoot’s habit of twitching her nose and twirling her thumbs when she is beginning an anecdote about somebody one never saw, and never cared to see.  Well, Carrie stopped in the middle of our rambles in the forest, and imitated her squeaky voice and absurd gestures to the life.  The anecdote, concocted impromptu, was a wonderfully sustained bit of pure invention.  On my honour, when she had finished her little performance, I could not help giving her a kiss for it.

“You will smile, my dear Mac, at this:  remembering the horror we mutually expressed one night at Ardbye’s chambers, of female mimics.  But there is a difference, which we do not appear to have recognised on that occasion, between good-natured and ill-natured mimicry.  Now nothing can be more harmless fun than my Carrie’s imitations.  She never has the bad taste to mimic a deformity, or to burlesque a misfortune.  She certainly said of Mrs. Blomonge (who is known to be the stoutest person in the parish of St. Bride’s) that her head floated on her shoulders like a waterlily on a pond; but then the joke was irresistible, and there was not a touch of malice in the way the thing was said.  How much there is in manner!

“Carrie is beginning to yearn for the repose of Arcady Cottage.  She wants to see herself mistress of a house.  She longs to have to order dinner, inspect the dusting of the drawing-room, pour out tea from our own tea-pot, and work antimacassars for our chairs.  I can see already that she will make the most perfect little housewife in the world.

“There are dolts and dullards who declare that women who are witty and accomplished, generally make bad housewives.  They are said to lie on sofas all day through, reading hooks they cannot understand; playing all kinds of tortuous music; and painting moss roses upon velvet.  I am not an old married man (twenty days old only), but I am ready to wager, from what I have already seen of my Carrie, that there is not the slightest ground for those charges against clever women; on the contrary, it seems to me that your clever woman will see the duty, as well as the pleasure, of ordering her husband’s house in a becoming manner.  Why should empty-headed girls,