"You need not have her," said the Man of Wrath composedly,
"but you will. You will write to-day and cordially invite her,
and when she has been here twenty-four hours you will quarrel with her.
I know you, my dear."

"Quarrel! I? With a little art-student?"
Miss Jones cast down her eyes. She is perpetually
scenting a scene, and is always ready to bring whole batteries
of discretion and tact and good taste to bear on us, and seems
to know we are disputing in an unseemly manner when we would
never dream it ourselves but for the warning of her downcast eyes.
I would take my courage in both hands and ask her to go,
for besides this superfluity of discreet behaviour she is,
although only nursery, much too zealous, and inclined to be always
teaching and never playing; but, unfortunately, the April baby
adores her and is sure there never was any one so beautiful before.
She comes every day with fresh accounts of the splendours of
her wardrobe, and feeling descriptions of her umbrellas and hats;
and Miss Jones looks offended and purses up her lips.
In common with most governesses, she has a little dark
down on her upper lip, and the April baby appeared one day
at dinner with her own decorated in faithful imitation,
having achieved it after much struggling, with the aid of a lead
pencil and unbounded love. Miss Jones put her in the corner
for impertinence. I wonder why governesses are so unpleasant.
The Man of Wrath says it is because they are not married.
Without venturing to differ entirely from the opinion
of experience, I would add that the strain of continually having
to set an example must surely be very great. It is much easier,
and often more pleasant, to be a warning than an example,