Mr. Duflian not being handy, she in her renewed earthly happiness wanted to see her charms in a woman’s natural mirror:  namely, the face of man:  if of man on his knees, all the better and though a little man is not much of a man, and a sister’s husband is, or should be, hardly one at all, still some sort of a reflector he must be.  Two or three jests adapted to Andrew’s palate achieved his momentary captivation.

He said:  ‘Gad, I never kissed you in my life, Louy.’

And she, with a flavour of delicate Irish brogue, ’Why don’t ye catch opportunity by the tail, then?’

Perfect innocence, I assure you, on both sides.

But mark how stupidity betrays.  Andrew failed to understand her, and act on the hint immediately.  Had he done so, the affair would have been over without a witness.  As it happened, delay permitted Harriet to assist at the ceremony.

‘It wasn’t your mouth, Louy,’ said Andrew.

‘Oh, my mouth!—­that I keep for, my chosen,’ was answered.

‘Gad, you make a fellow almost wish—­’ Andrew’s fingers worked over his poll, and then the spectre of righteous wrath flashed on him—­naughty little man that he was!  He knew himself naughty, for it was the only time since his marriage that he had ever been sorry to see his wife.  This is a comedy, and I must not preach lessons of life here:  but I am obliged to remark that the husband must be proof, the sister-in-law perfect, where arrangements exist that keep them under one roof.  She may be so like his wife!  Or, from the knowledge she has of his circumstances, she may talk to him almost as his wife.  He may forget that she is not his wife!  And then again, the small beginnings, which are in reality the mighty barriers, are so easily slid over.  But what is the use of telling this to a pure generation?  My constant error is in supposing that I write for the wicked people who begat us.

Note, however, the difference between the woman and the man!  Shame confessed Andrew’s naughtiness; he sniggered pitiably:  whereas the Countess jumped up, and pointing at him, asked her sister what she thought of that.  Her next sentence, coolly delivered, related to some millinery matter.  If this was not innocence, what is?

Nevertheless, I must here state that the scene related, innocent as it was, and, as one would naturally imagine, of puny consequence, if any, did no less a thing than, subsequently, to precipitate the Protestant Countess de Saldar into the bosom of the Roman Catholic Church.  A little bit of play!

It seems barely just.  But if, as I have heard, a lady has trod on a pebble and broken her nose, tremendous results like these warn us to be careful how we walk.  As for play, it was never intended that we should play with flesh and blood.

And, oh, be charitable, matrons of Britain!  See here, Andrew Cogglesby, who loved his wife as his very soul, and who almost disliked her sister; in ten minutes the latter had set his head spinning!  The whole of the day he went about the house meditating frantically on the possibility of his Harriet demanding a divorce.