to Adiante Adister for her sole use and benefit, making almost a man of her, and an unshackled man, owing no dues to posterity.  Those estates in the hands of a woman are in the hands of her husband; and the husband a gambler and a knave, they are in the hands of the Jews —­or gone to smoke.  Let them go.  A devilish malignity bequeathed them:  let them go back to their infernal origin.  And when they were gone, his girl would soon discover that there was no better place to come to than her home; she would come without an asking, and alone, and without much prospect of the intrusion of her infamous Hook-nose in pursuit of her at Earlsfont.  The money wasted, the wife would be at peace.  Here she would have leisure to repent of all the steps she had taken since that fatal one of the acceptance of the invitation to the Embassy at Vienna.  Mr. Adister had warned her both against her going and against the influence of her friend Lady Wenchester, our Ambassadress there, another Welsh woman, with the weathervane head of her race.  But the girl would accept, and it was not for him to hold out.  It appeared to be written that the Welsh, particularly Welsh women, were destined to worry him up to the end of his days.  Their women were a composition of wind and fire.  They had no reason, nothing solid in their whole nature.  Englishmen allied to them had to learn that they were dealing with broomstick witches and irresponsible sprites.  Irishwomen were models of propriety beside them:  indeed Irishwomen might often be patterns to their English sisterhood.  Mr. Adister described the Cambrian ladies as a kind of daughters of the Fata Morgana, only half human, and deceptive down to treachery, unless you had them fast by their spinning fancy.  They called it being romantic.  It was the ante-chamber of madness.  Mad, was the word for them.  You pleased them you knew not how, and just as little did you know how you displeased them.  And you were long hence to be taught that in a certain past year, and a certain month, and on a certain day of the month, not forgetting the hour of the day to the minute of the hour, and attendant circumstances to swear loud witness to it, you had mortally offended them.  And you receive your blow:  you are sure to get it:  the one passion of those women is for vengeance.  They taste a wound from the lightest touch, and they nurse the venom for you.  Possibly you may in their presence have had occasion to praise the military virtues of the builder of Carnarvon Castle.  You are by and by pierced for it as hard as they can thrust.  Or you have incidentally compared Welsh mutton with Southdown:—­you have not highly esteemed their drunken Bards:—­you have asked what the Welsh have done in the world; you are supposed to have slighted some person of their family—­a tenth cousin!—­anything turns their blood.  Or you have once looked straight at them without speaking, and you discover years after that they have chosen to foist on you their idea of your idea at the moment; and they have the astounding presumption to account this misreading of your look to the extent of a full justification, nothing short of righteous, for their treachery and your punishment!  O those Welshwomen!