SNAIL, WITH MY MAIL?"]

"In a moment, husband. In a moment."

"But he should be here now. It is the first of the month, it is nine
o'clock, I am ready; he should be here."

"It is not yet nine o'clock, husband."

"Not yet nine! Not yet nine! Am I not up? Am I not dressed? Have I not
breakfasted before nine?"

"That is so, husband. That is so." Honorine's voice, prompt in
cheerful acquiescence, came from the next room, where she was washing
his cup, saucer, and spoon.

"It is getting worse and worse every day. I tell you, Honorine, Pompey
must be discharged. He is worthless. He is trifling. Discharge him!
Discharge him! Do not have him about! Chase him out of the yard! Chase
him as soon as he makes his appearance! Do you hear, Honorine?"

"You must have a little patience, husband."

It was perhaps the only reproach one could make to Madame Honorine,
that she never learned by experience.

"Patience! Patience! Patience is the invention of dullards and
sluggards. In a well-regulated world there should be no need of such a
thing as patience. Patience should be punished as a crime, or at
least as a breach of the peace. Wherever patience is found police