Wife.—Why! you said just now you should have done it.
Husb.—Ay, at last, perhaps, I might, when things had been past recovery.
Wife.—That is to say, when you were ruined and undone, and could not show your head, I should know it; or when a statute of bankrupt had come out, and the creditors had come and turned us out of doors, then I should have known it—that would have been a barbarous sort of kindness.
Husb.—What could I do? I could not help it.
Wife.—Just so our old acquaintance G—W—did; his poor wife knew not one word of it, nor so much as suspected it, but thought him in as flourishing circumstances as ever; till on a sudden he was arrested in an action for a great sum, so great that he could not find bail, and the next day an execution on another action was served in the house, and swept away the very bed from under her; and the poor lady, that brought him £3000 portion, was turned into the street with five small children to take care of.
Husb.—Her case was very sad, indeed.
Wife.—But was not he a barbarous wretch to her, to let her know nothing of her circumstances? She was at the ball but the day before, in her velvet suit, and with her jewels on, and they reproach her with it every day.
Husb.—She did go too fine, indeed.
Wife.—Do you think she would have done so, if she had known any thing of his circumstances?
Husb.—It may be not.