“It is not the trout one thinks of when one dines with Mrs. Dale,” said the infamous dissimulator.
“But I see James coming to say that dinner is ready,” observed the parson.
“He said that three-quarters of an hour ago, Charles dear,” retorted Mrs. Dale, taking the arm of Dr. Riccabocca.
CHAPTER VIII.
While the parson and his wife are entertaining their guest, I propose to regale the reader with a small treatise a propos of that “Charles dear,” murmured by Mrs. Dale,—a treatise expressly written for the benefit of The Domestic Circle.
It is an old jest that there is not a word in the language that conveys so little endearment as the word “dear.” But though the saying itself, like most truths, be trite and hackneyed, no little novelty remains to the search of the inquirer into the varieties of inimical import comprehended in that malign monosyllable. For instance, I submit to the experienced that the degree of hostility it betrays is in much proportioned to its collocation in the sentence. When, gliding indirectly through the rest of the period, it takes its stand at the close, as in that “Charles dear” of Mrs. Dale, it has spilled so much of its natural bitterness by the way that it assumes even a smile, “amara lento temperet risu.” Sometimes the smile is plaintive, sometimes arch. For example:—
(Plaintive.) “I know very well that whatever I do is wrong, Charles dear.”
“Nay, I am very glad you amused yourself so much without me, Charles dear.”
“Not quite so loud! If you had but my poor head, Charles dear,” etc.