sparkle upon the gentlemen's black coats! ("Yes," says Mr. P., "and
how finely Gauche Boosey, and Timon Croesus, and young Downe will look
in silk tights and small clothes!") They say it's genuine gold ground
up. I have already sent for a white velvet and lace--the Empress's
bridal dress, you know. That foolish old P. asked me if I had sent for
the Emperor and the Bank of France too.

"Men ask such absurd questions," said I.

"Mrs. Potiphar, I never asked but one utterly absurd question in my
life," said he, and marched out of the house.

_Au revoir, chere Caroline_. I have a thousand things to say, but
I know you must be tired to death.

Fondly yours,

POLLY POTIPHAR.

P. S.--Our little Fred. is quite down with the scarlet fever. Potiphar
says I mustn't expose myself, so I don't go into the room; but
Mrs. Jollup, the nurse, tells me through the keyhole how he is.
Mr. P. sleeps in the room next the nursery, so as not to carry the
infection to me. He looks very solemn as he walks down town. I hope it
won't spoil Fred's complexion. I should be so sorry to have him a
little fright! Poor little thing!

P. S. 2d.--Isn't it funny about the music?