The conversation now turned on desultory and indifferent matters.  I knew my wife was an excellent talker, but on that particular evening I think she surpassed herself.  She had resolved to fascinate me, that I saw at once, and she spared no pains to succeed in her ambition.  Graceful sallies, witty bon-mots tipped with the pungent sparkle of satire, gay stories well and briskly told, all came easily from her lips, so that though I knew her so well, she almost surprised me by her variety and fluency.  Yet this gift of good conversation in a woman is apt to mislead the judgment of those who listen, for it is seldom the result of thought, and still more seldom is it a proof of intellectual capacity.  A woman talks as a brook babbles; pleasantly, but without depth.  Her information is generally of the most surface kind—­she skims the cream off each item of news, and serves it up to you in her own fashion, caring little whether it be correct or the reverse.  And the more vivaciously she talks, the more likely she is to be dangerously insincere and cold-hearted, for the very sharpness of her wit is apt to spoil the more delicate perceptions of her nature.  Show me a brilliant woman noted for turning an epigram or pointing a satire, and I will show you a creature whose life is a masquerade, full of vanity, sensuality and pride.  The man who marries such a one must be content to take the second place in his household, and play the character of the henpecked husband with what meekness he best may.  Answer me, ye long suffering spouses of “society women” how much would you give to win back your freedom and self-respect? to be able to hold your head up unabashed before your own servants? to feel that you can actually give an order without its being instantly countermanded?  Ah, my poor friends! millions will not purchase you such joy; as long as your fascinating fair ones are like Caesar’s wife, “above suspicion” (and they are generally prudent managers), so long must you dance in their chains like the good-natured clumsy bears that you are, only giving vent to a growl now and then; a growl which at best only excites ridicule.  My wife was of the true world worldly; never had I seen her real character so plainly as now, when she exerted herself to entertain and charm me.  I had thought her spirituelle, ethereal, angelic! never was there less of an angel than she!  While she talked, I was quick to observe the changes on Ferrari’s countenance.  He became more silent and sullen as her brightness and cordiality increased.  I would not appear aware of the growing stiffness in his demeanor; I continued to draw him into the conversation, forcing him to give opinions on various subjects connected with the art of which he was professedly a follower.  He was very reluctant to speak at all; and when compelled to do so, his remarks were curt and almost snappish, so much so that my wife made a laughing comment on his behavior.

“You are positively ill-tempered, Guido!” she exclaimed, then remembering she had addressed him by his Christian name, she turned to me and added—­“I always call him Guido, en famille; you know he is just like a brother to me.”