I am now living in the same house with my father, who is very happy, and behaves pretty well. He is seldom in a passion more than twice a week, which we consider as miraculous. Now that I am writing this, he has his two grandchildren on his knees. Mrs Cophagus has married a captain in the Life Guards, and as far as fashion and dress are concerned, may be said to be “going the whole hog.” And now, as I have no doubt that my readers will be curious to know whether my lovely wife adheres to her primitive style of dress, I shall only repeat a conversation of yesterday night, as she came down arrayed for a splendid ball given by Mrs Harcourt de Clare.

“Tell me now, De Benyon,” said she, “is not this a pretty dress?”

“Yes, my dear,” replied I, looking at her charming face and figure with all the admiration usual in the honeymoon, “it is indeed; but do you not think, my dear Susan,” said I, putting the tip of my white glove upon her snowy shoulder, “that it is cut down a little too low?”

“Too low, De Benyon! why it’s not half so low as Mrs Harcourt de Clare or Lady C— wear their dresses.”

“Well, my dear, I did not assert that it was. I only asked.”

“Well, then, if you only asked for information, De Benyon, I will tell you that it is not too low, and I think you will acknowledge that on this point my opinion ought to be decisive; for, if I have no other merit, I have at least the merit of being the best-dressed woman in London.”

“Verily thou persuadest me, Susannah,” replied I.

“Now, De Benyon, hold your tongue.”

Like a well-disciplined husband, I bowed, and said no more. And now, having no more to say, I shall also make my bow to my readers, and bid them farewell.

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