ing that their praises shall reflect upon
somebody who is present, so they never depreciate anything or anybody,
without turning their depreciation to the same account. Their friend,
Mr. Slummery, say they, is unquestionably a clever painter, and would no
doubt be very popular, and sell his pictures at a very high price, if
that cruel Mr. Fithers had not forestalled him in his department of art,
and made it thoroughly and completely his own;--Fithers, it is to be
observed, being present and within hearing, and Slummery elsewhere. Is
Mrs. Tabblewick really as beautiful as people say? Why, there indeed you
ask them a very puzzling question, because there is no doubt that she is
a very charming woman, and they have long known her intimately. She is
no doubt beautiful, very beautiful; they once thought her the most
beautiful woman ever seen; still if you press them for an honest answer,
they are bound to say that this was before they had ever seen our lovely
friend on the sofa, (the sofa is hard by, and our lovely friend can't
help hearing the whispers in which this is said;) since that time,
perhaps, they have been hardly fair judges; Mrs. Tabblewick is no doubt
extremely handsome,--very like our friend, in fact, in the form of the
features,--but in point of expression, and soul, and figure, and air
altogether--oh dear!

But while the plausible couple depreciate, they are still careful to
preserve their character for amiability and kind feeling; indeed the
depreciation itself is often made to grow out of their excessive sympathy
and good will. The plausible lady calls on a lady who dotes upon her
children, and is sitting with a little girl upon her knee, enraptured by
her artless replies, and protesting that there is nothing she delights in
so much as conversing with these fairies; when the other lady inquires if
she has seen young Mrs. Finching lately, and whether the baby has turned
out a finer one than it promised to be. 'Oh dear!' cries the plausible
lady, 'you cannot think how often Bobtail and I have talked about poor
Mrs. Finching--she is such a dear soul, and was so anxious that the baby
should be a fine child--and very naturally, because she was very much
here at one time, and there is, you know, a natural emulation among
mothers--that it is impossible to tell you how much we have felt for
her.' 'Is it weak or plain, or what?' inquires the other. 'Weak or
plain, my love,' returns the plausible lady, 'it's a