of fifty, there is nothing but a similarity of name upon which to
found all this flourish of aristocracy."

My dear old Pot is getting rather prosy, Carrie. So when he had
finished that long speech, during which I was looking at the lovely
fashion plates in Harper, I said:

"What colors do you think I'd better have?"

He looked at me with that singular expression, and went out suddenly,
as if he were afraid he might say something.

He had scarcely gone before I heard:

"My dear Mrs. Potiphar, the sight of you is refreshing as Hermon's
dew."

I colored a little; Mr. Cheese says such things so softly. But I said
good morning, and then asked him about liveries, etc.

He raised his hand to his cravat, (it was the most snowy lawn, Carrie,
and tied in a splendid bow.)

"Is not this a livery, dear Mrs. Potiphar?"

And then he went off into one of those pretty talks, in what
Mr. P. calls the "language of artificial flowers," and wound up by
quoting Scripture,--"Servants, obey your masters."

That was enough for me. So I told Mr. Cheese that as he had already