I have already given the reader to understand that my wife was not the most particular of the fair sex, and took too little pains sometimes about the matters of the table, to please my fastidious taste. This by ourselves occasionally led to sage lectures from me, on the surprising inattention with which some people regarded as trifles many things that others felt were essentials to happiness. But in the whole course of our union, she had never been so remiss as she was on that day when Mr. Macindoe and his friend Mr. Mashlim came to take “pot luck” with us.

In the best regulated families, accident will now and then occasion a wasteful accumulation of cold meat, and it so happened that this was the case with us on that day. I must not, however, disguise my own share of the blame, for the servant had apprised me of the state of the larder; but instead of describing the condition of the articles there, he only told me of their respective names. There was mutton, ham, and turkey, with pastry, and beef to roast. Now, as I loathe a miser's feast as much as a spendthrift's last banquet, I thought the roasting of the beef would be superfluous, as there were to be only four of us; so I interdicted it. Mrs. Corbet, without being much surprised at my economical humour, thought likewise that I did not, as she said, intend to be particular, and most notably resolved that it was an opportunity on which she might pass off a bottle of her stale drops with impunity. Being, however, conscious that the matériel of the larder was not in the plumpest condition, she deemed, with her wonted address, to make up for all defects, by ordering the table to be arranged with more than common neatness.