ter and though a
little man is not much of a man, and a sister's husband is, or should
be, hardly one at all, still some sort of a reflector he must be. Two
or three jests adapted to Andrew's palate achieved his momentary
captivation.

He said: 'Gad, I never kissed you in my life, Louy.'

And she, with a flavour of delicate Irish brogue, 'Why don't ye catch
opportunity by the tail, then?'

Perfect innocence, I assure you, on both sides.

But mark how stupidity betrays. Andrew failed to understand her, and act
on the hint immediately. Had he done so, the affair would have been over
without a witness. As it happened, delay permitted Harriet to assist at
the ceremony.

'It wasn't your mouth, Louy,' said Andrew.

'Oh, my mouth!--that I keep for, my chosen,' was answered.

'Gad, you make a fellow almost wish--' Andrew's fingers worked over his
poll, and then the spectre of righteous wrath flashed on him--naughty
little man that he was! He knew himself naughty, for it was the only
time since his marriage that he had ever been sorry to see his wife.
This is a comedy, and I must not preach lessons of life here: but I
am obliged to remark that the husband must be proof, the sister-in-law
perfect, where arrangements exist that keep them under one roof. She
may be so like his wife! Or, from the knowledge she has of his
circumstances, she may talk to him almost as his wife. He may forget
that she is not his wife! And then again, the small beginnings, which
are in reality the mighty barriers, are so easily slid over. But what
is the use of telling this to a pure generation? My constant error is in
supposing that I write for the wicked people who begat us.

Note, however, the difference between the woman and the man! Shame
confessed Andrew's naughtiness; he sniggered pitiably: whereas the
Countess jumped up, and pointing at him, asked her sister what she
thought of that. Her next sentence, coolly delivered, related to some
millinery matter. If this was not innocence, what is?

Nevertheless, I must here state that the scene related, innocent as it
was, and, as one would naturally imagine, of puny consequence, if any,
did no less a thing than, subsequently, to precipitate the Protestant
Countess de Saldar into the bosom of the Roman Catholic Church. A little
bit of play!

It seems barely just. But if, as I have heard, a lady has trod on a
pebble and broken her nose, tremendous results like these warn us to be
careful how w