“If it were not for that terrible tired feeling of mine,” said Mr. Sparrow, “blame if I wouldn’t build a house of my own.”
“Perhaps,” said Mrs. Sparrow, “—I have heard it said that a little bit of work, now and then, does you good.”
“All sorts of wild ideas about in the air nowadays,” said Mr. Sparrow, “it don’t do to listen to everybody.”
“And it don’t do to sit still and do nothing neither,” snapped Mrs. Sparrow. “I don’t want to have to forget I’m a lady, but—well, any man who was a man would see things for himself.”
“Why did I every marry?” retorted Mr. Sparrow.
They flew away together, quarrelling.
DO WRITERS WRITE TOO MUCH?
On a newspaper placard, the other day, I saw announced a new novel by a celebrated author. I bought a copy of the paper, and turned eagerly to the last page. I was disappointed to find that I had missed the first six chapters. The story had commenced the previous Saturday; this was Friday. I say I was disappointed and so I was, at first. But my disappointment did not last long. The bright and intelligent sub-editor, according to the custom now in vogue, had provided me with a short synopsis of those first six chapters, so that without the trouble of reading them I knew what they were all about.
“The first instalment,” I learned, “introduces the reader to a brilliant and distinguished company, assembled in the drawing-room of Lady Mary’s maisonette in Park Street. Much smart talk is indulged in.”
I know that “smart talk” so well. Had I not been lucky enough to miss that first chapter I should have had to listen to it once again. Possibly, here and there, it might have been new to me, but it would have read, I know, so very like the old. A dear, sweet white-haired lady of my acquaintance is never surprised at anything that happens.