ch."

"And do they intend to muzzle their paws?" I asked, smiling; adding a
suggestion that two pairs of goloshes apiece would answer the purpose
admirably, besides having the combined advantage of keeping the poor
things from rheumatism!

But he did not smile. He saw nothing funny in what he had said. He
thought I was laughing at him, and so left me at the very first
opportunity, and went and sat by himself at the tea table. I could not
very well see what he was doing, for his back was turned; howbeit it
was a very eloquent back--a back which appeared absorbed in bread and
butter and cakes! He must have cleared the table, I should think,
before he had finished!

It certainly is not nice to be caught up suddenly and made to appear
foolish. If you ever make a mistake, the best way is to confess it at
once, to tell the tale yourself. It sounds very different from your
lips than from those of your dearest friends. People laugh, but it is
a laugh that lacks the sting it would have if someone else told it at
your expense.

I remember making a woeful slip when I was taken over a cotton mill.
The man who was conducting us pointed to what looked like a heap of
dirty wool, and explained that it was the raw material. "And is that
just as it comes off the sheep's back?" I asked, unthinkingly. If a
thunderbolt had fallen in our midst the guide could not have been more
astonished. "Cotton, Miss!" he said, with grave surprise, "_Cotton_ is
a plant!" I inquired for no further information in that cotton mill,
but I told the story myself when I reached home, joining in the
laughter that followed as heartily as any of my audience.

Curates are more the rule than the exception at the five o'clock meal.
Somehow, you always connect the two. Afternoon tea without a curate
sounds an anomaly, a something incomplete.

I have had great experience in curates. Ours is a large parish, and
many clerical helps are needed. Large, small, nice, objectionable,
ugly, handsome--I have met specimens of each and all, and have come
to the conclusion that the last kind is the worst. How rarely do you
meet a good-looking man who thinks of anything but his appearance. It
is strange, for the more lovely a woman is the less apparently
conscious she is of her beauty. At any rate, she does not go about
with an expression which seems to say, "I am that which is 'a joy
forever'--admire me!"

The "pale young curate" type is perhaps the most general. This poor