"I dare say, my love;--[still gazing in his eyes and smiling]--I know
I'm very stupid,"--[playing a card.]

"Well, you have taken a curious way to mend matters--that last play
was a thousand degrees worse than the other."

"I dare say, my love,--[looking in his face, and continuing to drawl
and simper in the manner which we might imagine of Shakspeare's little
shepherdess--

"'Sweet youth chide on--I had rather hear thee chide
Than others woo--'"]

"But tell me, love, when I play wrong," [playing again without taking
her eyes from his, even to look at her card.]

"I had much better leave you to yourself," said L.

"'_You will be compelled to take refuge in fits of sullenness_,'"
muttered I, quoting from my former prophecy.

"My dear,"--[pronounced just in the same way as he might have said,
'you fool,']--pray open your eyes."

"_Perhaps in rudeness_," I continued.

"There again!" cried poor L----, who seemed in danger of being ruined
by the admiration of his wife. "It is not possible for a card to be
played worse than that. Your head, my dear, must be as confused as
your boudoir."