armacopoeia' in verse! The article 'Mummia,'
for instance, was already complete, though the remainder of the work had
not progressed beyond the letter A. It was exceedingly copious and
entertaining, written with quaintness and colour, exact, erudite, a
literary article; but it would hardly have afforded guidance to a
practising physician of to-day. The feminine good sense of his wife had
led her to point this out with uncompromising sincerity; for the
Dictionary was duly read aloud to her, betwixt sleep and waning, as it
proceeded towards an infinitely distant completion; and the Doctor was a
little sore on the subject of mummies, and sometimes resented an allusion
with asperity.

After the midday meal and a proper period of digestion, he walked,
sometimes alone, sometimes accompanied by Jean-Marie; for madame would
have preferred any hardship rather than walk.

She was, as I have said, a very busy person, continually occupied about
material comforts, and ready to drop asleep over a novel the instant she
was disengaged. This was the less objectionable, as she never snored or
grew distempered in complexion when she slept. On the contrary, she
looked the very picture of luxurious and appetising ease, and woke
without a start to the perfect possession of her faculties. I am afraid
she was greatly an animal, but she was a very nice animal to have about.
In this way, she had little to do with Jean-Marie; but the sympathy which
had been established between them on the first night remained unbroken;
they held occasional conversations, mostly on household matters; to the
extreme disappointment of the Doctor, they occasionally sallied off
together to that temple of debasing superstition, the village church;
madame and he, both in their Sunday's best, drove twice a month to
Fontainebleau and returned laden with purchases; and in short, although
the Doctor still continued to regard them as irreconcilably
anti-pathetic, their relation was as intimate, friendly, and confidential
as their natures suffered.

I fear, however, that in her heart of hearts, madame kindly despised and
pitied the boy. She had no admiration for his class of virtues; she
liked a smart, polite, forward, roguish sort of boy, cap in hand, light
of foot, meeting the eye; she liked volubility, charm, a little vice--the
promise of a second Doctor Desprez. And it was her indefeasible belief
that Jean-Marie was dull. 'Poor dear boy,' she had said once, 'ho