He looked at me strangely, and kept his counsel as well as mine—and not a single word has since passed our lips; but in after days, when dining at our house in company with his wife, I have seen his eyes wander from the Turkey carpet to the dinner-service, and again, in the drawing-room, from the occasional tables to the china tea-cups and saucers; and then he has glanced darkly at me, with the look of a found-out conspirator, and I have looked darkly at him. But, no, not even to the wife of my bosom have I ever unburdened myself respecting the prices I paid for the new acquisitions to our furnishing department. While as to that five-guinea wool mattress, I could almost swear that, whoever stuffed it, stuffed in the miserable sheep’s trotters and bones, for whenever by chance we have slept in the visitors’ room, upon airing principles, I have always felt lumps right through the feather bed. “No, my love, the price has nothing to do with you,” I said, while being cross-questioned. “You have the things, so you ought to be satisfied.” “So I am, and it’s very good of you,” said Mrs Scribe; “and now you’ll be good, too, and not tease mamma—now, won’t you!” “All right.” “And I say, dear.” “Well!” (from under the counterpane). “Don’t, now—same as you did last time—don’t ask poor mamma how long she means to stay.” “All right,” (very muffled in tone). “No, dear, it isn’t all right if you ask her such a thing. It looks as if you meant that you wanted to get rid of her again.” “So I do,” (this time so smothered that it was audible only to self). “Good-night, dear.” “Goonight.” “What a nice, comfortable, pleasant-feeling, long-napped carpet, George. I do like a Turkey carpet above all things; it is so warm and aristocratic-looking, and then, too, so durable. Now, I’m sure, my dear, I am right in saying that you picked it up a bargain at a sale.” “Yes, that he did, mamma dear,” said Mrs Scribe; “but he won’t tell me what he gave for it. Do tease him till he tells you.” “Now, how much was it, sir?”
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