“Why, Edward!  How you do look!” said Cora.  “You’ve neither shaved nor put on a clean shirt.”

Edward stroked his face and run his fingers along the edge of his collar, remarking, indifferently, as he did so—­

“It’s no matter.  I look well enough.  This being so very particular in dress is waste of time, and I’m getting tired of it.”

And in this trim Douglass went off to his business, much to the annoyance of his wife, who could not bear to see her husband looking so slovenly.

Gradually the declension from neatness went on, until Edward was quite a match for his wife; and yet, strange to say, Cora had not taken the hint, broad as it was.  In her own person she was as untidy as ever.

About six months after their marriage, we invited a few friends to spend a social evening with us, Cora and her husband among the number.  Cora came alone, quite early, and said that her husband was very much engaged, and could not come until after tea.  My young friend had not taken much pains with her attire.  Indeed, her appearance mortified me, as it contrasted so decidedly with that of the other ladies who were present; and I could not help suggesting to her that she was wrong in being so indifferent about her dress.  But she laughingly replied to me—­

“You know my fortune’s made now, Mrs. Smith.  I can afford to be negligent in these matters.  It’s a great waste of time to dress so much.”

I tried to argue against this, but could make no impression upon her.

About an hour after tea, and while we were all engaged in pleasant conversation, the door of the parlour opened, and in walked Mr. Douglass.  At first glance I thought I must be mistaken.  But no, it was Edward himself.  But what a figure he did cut!  His uncombed hair was standing up, in stiff spikes, in a hundred different directions; his face could not have felt the touch of a razor for two or three days; and he was guiltless of clean linen for at least the same length of time.  His vest was soiled; his boots unblacked; and there was an unmistakable hole in one of his elbows.

“Why, Edward!” exclaimed his wife, with a look of mortification and distress, as her husband came across the room, with a face in which no consciousness of the figure he cut could be detected.

“Why, my dear fellow!  What is the matter?” said my husband, frankly; for he perceived that the ladies were beginning to titter, and that the gentlemen were looking at each other, and trying to repress their risible tendencies; and therefore deemed it best to throw off all reserve on the subject.

“The matter?  Nothing’s the matter, I believe.  Why do you ask?” Douglass looked grave.

“Well may he ask, what’s the, matter?” broke in Cora, energetically.  “How could you come here in such a plight?”

“In such a plight?” And Edward looked down at himself, felt his beard, and ran his fingers through his hair.  “What’s the matter?  Is any thing wrong?”