come to think of it, how skilfully Brigadier-General Mrs. Pettitoes
deployed those daughters of hers; how vigorously Mrs. Tabby led on her
forlorn hope; and how unweariedly, Murat-like, Mrs. De Famille charged
at the head of her cavalry. They deserve to be made Marshals of
France, all of them. And I am sure, that if women ought ever to
receive honorary testimonials, it is for having "married a daughter
well."

That's a pretty phrase! The mammas marry, the misses are married.

And yet, I don't see why I say so. I fear I am getting sour. For
certainly, Polly's mother didn't marry Polly to me. I fell in love
with her, the rest followed. Old Gnu says that it's true Polly's
mother didn't marry her, but she did marry herself, to me.

[Illustration]

"Do you really think, Paul Potiphar," said he, a few months ago, when
I was troubled about Polly's getting a livery, "that your wife was in
love with you, a dry old chip from China? Don't you hear her say
whenever any of her friends are engaged, that they 'have done very
well!' and made a 'capital match!' and have you any doubt of her
meaning? Don't you know that this is the only country in which the
word 'money' must never be named in the young female ear; and in whose
best society--not universally nor without exception, of course not;
Paul, don't be a fool--money makes marriages? When you were engaged,
'the world' said that it was a 'capital thing' for Polly. Did that
mean that you were a good, generous, intelligent, friendly, and
patient man, who would be the companion for life she ought to have?
You know, as well as I do, and as all the people who said it know,