LXIII.
THE TIME TO CHOOSE.
Mrs. Chrissholm says:—"The best time to choose a wife is early in the morning. If a young lady is at all inclined to sulks and slatternness, it is just before breakfast. As a general thing, a woman don't get on her temper, till after 10 A. M."
Very spiritedly Fanny makes answer:—
"'Men never look slovenly before breakfast—no indeed! Never run round vestless in their stocking-feet, with dressing-gown inside out; soiled hankerchief hanging by one corner out of the pocket; minus dickey; minus neck-tie; pantaloon straps flying at their heels; suspenders streaming from their waistband; chin shaved on one side, lathered on the other; last night's coat and pants on the floor, just where they hopped out of them; face snarled up in forty wrinkles, because the chamber fire won't burn; and because it snows; and because the office-boy hasn't been for the keys; and because the newspaper hasn't come; and because they smoked too many cigars by one dozen, the night before; and because they lost that bet, and can't pay the Scot-t; and because there's an omelet instead of a chicken-leg for breakfast; and because they are out of sorts and shaving-soap; and out of cigars and credit; and can't any how 'get their temper on,' till they get some money and a mint julap!
"Any time 'before 10 o'clock,' is the time to 'choose' a husband—perhaps!"
LXIV.
OUR NELLY.
This is one of Fanny's sweet bits of pathos; so sweet, so pure, it would furnish an apology for half a volume of coarse slang:—
"'Who is she?' 'Why, that is our Nelly, to be sure.' Nobody ever passed Nelly without asking, 'Who is she?' One can't forget the glance of that blue eye, in a hurry; nor the waving of those golden locks; nor the breezy grace of that lithe figure; nor those scarlet lips, nor the bright, glad sparkle of the whole face; and then she is not a bit proud; although she steps so like a queen she would shake hands just as quick with a horny palm as with a kid glove. The world can't spoil 'our Nelly,' for her heart is in the right place.
"'You should have seen her thank an old farmer, the other day, for clearing the road, that she might pass. He shaded his eyes with his hand, when she swept by, as if he had been dazzled by a sudden flash of sunlight, and muttered to himself, as he looked after her—'Won't she make somebody's heart ache?' Well, she has, but it is because from among all her lovers she could marry but one, and, God save us! that her choice should have fallen upon Walter Lee! If he don't quench out the love-light in those blue eyes, my name is not John Morrison. I've seen his eyes flash when things didn't suit him; I've seen him nurse his wrath to keep it warm till the smouldering embers were ready for conflagration. He's as vindictive as an Indian. I'd as soon mate a dove with a tiger, as give him 'our Nelly.' There's a dozen noble fellows, this hour, ready to lay down their lives for her, and yet out of the whole crowd she must choose Walter Lee. Oh, I have no patience to think of it. Well-a-day! mark my words, he will break her heart before a twelve-month! He's a pocket edition of Napoleon.'