ard men wish their wives were dumb, but deaf
never.

I remember once seeing a play at a Paris Boulevard theatre, frequented
by the emotional portion of the Parisian public, in which the heroine,
in the fourth act, appears with a thick veil over her face. She has had
small-pox and she is sadly disfigured for life; she expects her lover,
who is returning from the war. A year has elapsed since the curtain
went down over the third act; she has just received a letter announcing
his arrival safe and sound. She is happy, radiant; then she looks at
herself in a glass and weeps bitterly; she has told him of her illness,
but not of her misfortune; he knows nothing about it. Will he love her
still when he sees her, or will he go away from her? The suspense is
awful, and the situation dramatic. At last he appears on the threshold
of the door, and stretches out his arms to her; she remains speechless,
motionless, and the audience breathless. He rushes up to her to take
her in his arms. With a dramatic gesture of the hands she bids him
stand back. Then she tells him what has happened; but he is one of
those worthy, undaunted heroes of the Boulevard melodramas whose love
can triumph over all obstacles. He swears that it will make no
difference to his sentiments; she lifts up her veil; then he falls at
her feet and exclaims from the depths of his heart: 'I love you just
the same, my darling.' (Tableau, cheers, and applause.) Of course he
does not say to her that he finds her more beautiful than ever, and
that the marks suit her style of beauty and all that sort of thing, but
he swears again that his love has not altered, and the audience applaud
this lofty sentiment, and the women say: 'That's a man!'

H'm! is it, though?

A friend who was with me on that occasion, and who is a bit of a cynic,
said to me: 'There was only one possible _denouement_ for that play to
give satisfaction to an audience that must go home perfectly persuaded
that the hero and the heroine will be happy and in love with each other
for ever and ever. The author missed a fine dramatic curtain. As the
small-pox marks cannot be taken away, that man should have carried his
love for that girl further than he did. He should have torn his eyes
out in her presence. The sacrifice would have gone straight to her
heart, and would have made the continuation of his love possible.'

'Well,' I said, 'yes, I see what you mean, but how do you know that the
girl would have care