To-day the sewing-girl thrust out spiteful faces at me several times.

She is the one that helped Georgiana last year when she was making her
wedding-clothes to marry the West Point cousin. God keep him safely in
the distance, or guide him firmly to the van of war! How does a woman
feel when she is making her wedding-clothes for the second time and for
another man? I know very well how the other man feels. Upon my urging
Georgiana to marry me at once--nature does not recognize engagements;
they are a device of civilization--she protested:

"But I must get ready! Think of the sewing!"

"Oh, bother!" I grumbled. "Where are all those clothes that you made
last year?"

How was I to suppose that Georgiana must have everything made over as
part of her feeling for me? I would not decree it otherwise; yet I
question whether this delicacy may not impose reciprocal obligations,
and remove from my life certain elements of abiding comfort. What if
it should engender a prejudice against my own time-worn
acquaintances--the familiars of my fireside? It might be justifiable
sagacity in me to keep them locked up for the first year or so after
Georgiana and I become a diune being; and, upon the whole, she should
never know what may have been the premarital shortcomings of my
wardrobe as respects things unseen. No matter how well a bachelor may
appear dressed, there is no telling what he conceals upon his person.
I feel sure that the retrospective discovery of a ravelling would
somehow displease Georgiana as a feature of our courtship. Nature is
very stringent here, very guarded, truly universal. Invariably the