t the drawback to Vereker's practice of
his bachelorhood. He was then, as it were, brought up for a second
reading, and new clauses added to him containing schedules of possible
wives. Fenwick had noticed, then, that Sally's assent to the insertion
of any candidate's name turned on two points: one, the lady's consent
being taken for granted; the other, that every young single female
human creature known by name or describable by language was actually
out of the question, or inadmissible in its answer. She rejected
almost all applicants for the post of a doctor's wife without
examining their claims, on the ground of moral or physical defect--as,
for instance, you never would go and tie up poor Prosy to a wife that
golloped. Sylvia Peplow, indeed! Interrogated about the nature of
"golloping," Sally could go no nearer than that Miss Peplow looked as
if she couldn't help it. And her sister was worse: she was perfectly
pecky, and shut up with a click. And as for the large Miss Baker--why,
you knew how large _she_ was, and it would be quite ridiculous!
Besides, her stupidity!

The only candidates that got the least consideration owed their
success to their names or expectations. Caroline Smith had, or would
have sometime, a thousand a year. But she squinted. Still, she might
be thought over. Mrs. Pollicitus Biggs's cousin Isabella would have
two thousand when her mother died, but the vitality of the latter was
indescribable. Besides, she was just like her name, Isabella, and did
her hair religiously. There was Chariclea Epimenides, certainly, who
had got three thousand, and would have six more. She might be worth
thinking of....

"Why don't you have him yourself, Sarah?" Fenwick had asked at this
point. Rosalind had just left the room to speak to Ann. But he didn't
want Sarah to be obliged to answer, so he went on: "Why are all these
young ladies' incomes exactly in round thousands?"

To which Sally had replied: "They always are, when you haven't got
'em." But had fallen into contemplation, and presently said--out of
the blue--"Because I'm an unsettled sort of party--a vagrant. I
shouldn't do for a G.P.'s wife, thank you, Jeremiah! I should like
to live in a caravan, and go about the country, and wood fires out
of doors." Was it, Fenwick wondered, the gipsies they had seen to-day
that had made her think of this? and then he recalled how he afterwards
heard the kitten singing to herself the old ballad:

"What care I for