only the moths who will burn their two-penny immature wings in the flame!  And why should they not?  Nature has been pleased to supply more moths than candles!  Go to!—­give the pretty creature—­be she maid, wife, or widow—­a show!  And so, my dear sir, while mater-familias bends her black brows in disgust, we smile our superior little smile, and extend to Mistress Anonyma our gracious indorsement.  And if giddiness is grateful, or if folly is friendly,—­well, of course, we can’t help that.  Indeed it rather proves our theory.

I had intended to say something about Hopkinson; but really there is very little to say.  He was invariably good humored.  A few ladies once tried to show him that he really ought to feel worse than he did about the conduct of his wife; and it is recorded that Hopkinson, in an excess of good humor and kindliness, promised to do so.  Indeed the good fellow was so accessible that it is said that young DeLancy of the Tape Department confided to Hopkinson his jealousy of a rival; and revealed the awful secret that he (DeLancy) had reason to expect more loyalty from his (Hopkinson’s) wife.  The good fellow is reported to have been very sympathetic, and to have promised Delaney to lend whatever influence he had with Mrs. Hopkinson in his favor.  “You see,” he said explanatorily to DeLancy, “she has a good deal to attend to lately, and I suppose has got rather careless,—­that’s women’s ways.  But if I can’t bring her round I’ll speak to Gashwiler,—­I’ll get him to use his influence with Mrs. Hop.  So cheer up, my boy, he’ll make it all right.”

The appearance of a bouquet on the table of Mrs. Hopkinson was no rare event; nevertheless, Mr. Gashwiler’s was not there.  Its hideous contrasts had offended her woman’s eye,—­it is observable that good taste survives the wreck of all the other feminine virtues,—­and she had distributed it to make boutonnieres for other gentlemen.  Yet, when he appeared, she said to him hastily, putting her little hand over the cardiac region: 

“I’m so glad you came.  But you gave me such a fright an hour ago.”

Mr. Gashwiler was both pleased and astounded.  “What have I done, my dear Mrs. Hopkinson?” he began.

“Oh, don’t talk,” she said sadly.  “What have you done, indeed!  Why, you sent me that beautiful bouquet.  I could not mistake your taste in the arrangement of the flowers;—­but my husband was here.  You know his jealousy.  I was obliged to conceal it from him.  Never—­promise me now—­never do it again.”

Mr. Gashwiler gallantly protested.

“No!  I am serious!  I was so agitated:  he must have seen me blush.”

Nothing but the gross flattery to this speech could have clouded its manifest absurdity to the Gashwiler consciousness.  But Mr. Gashwiler had already succumbed to the girlish half-timidity with which it was uttered.  Nevertheless, he could not help saying: 

“But why should he be so jealous now?  Only day before yesterday I saw Simpson of Duluth hand you a nosegay right before him!”