I dare say I did laugh a little too much the other night, but could I help it?  We had a dinner party.  Present were Mr. Pollingray, Mrs. Kershaw, the Wilbury people (three), Charles, my brother Duncan, Evelina, mama, papa, myself, and Mr. and Mrs. (put them last for emphasis) Romer Pattlecombe, Mrs. Pattlecombe (the same number of syllables as Pollingray, and a ‘P’ to begin with) is thirty-one years her husband’s junior, and she is twenty-six; full of fun, and always making fun of him, the mildest, kindest, goody old thing, who has never distressed himself for anything and never will.  Mrs. Romer not only makes fun, but is fun.  When you have done laughing with her, you can laugh at her.  She is the salt of society in these parts.  Some one, as we were sitting on the lawn after dinner, alluded to the mishap to papa and mama, and mama, who has never forgiven Mr. Pollingray for having seen her in her ridiculous plight, said that men were in her opinion greater gossips than women.  ‘That is indisputable, ma’am,’ said Mr. Pollingray, he loves to bewilder her; ‘only, we never mention it.’

‘There is an excuse for us,’ said Mrs. Romer; ’our trials are so great, we require a diversion, and so we talk of others.’

‘Now really,’ said Charles, ’I don’t think your trials are equal to ours.’

For which remark papa bantered him, and his uncle was sharp on him; and Charles, I know, spoke half seriously, though he was seeking to draw Mrs. Romer out:  he has troubles.

From this, we fell upon a comparison of sufferings, and Mrs. Romer took up the word.  She is a fair, smallish, nervous woman, with delicate hands and outlines, exceedingly sympathetic; so much so that while you are telling her anything, she makes half a face in anticipation, and is ready to shriek with laughter or shake her head with uttermost grief; and sometimes, if you let her go too far in one direction, she does both.  All her narrations are with ups and downs of her hands, her eyes, her chin, and her voice.  Taking poor, good old Mr. Romer by the roll of his coat, she made as if posing him, and said:  ’There!  Now, it’s all very well for you to say that there is anything equal to a woman’s sufferings in this world.  I do declare you know nothing of what we unhappy women have to endure.  It’s dreadful!  No male creature can possibly know what tortures I have to undergo.’

Mama neatly contrived, after interrupting her, to divert the subject.  I think that all the ladies imagined they were in jeopardy, but I knew Mrs. Romer was perfectly to be trusted.  She has wit which pleases, jusqu’aux ongles, and her sense of humour never overrides her discretion with more than a glance—­never with preparation.