"But it isn't. They--we--only talk about the weather and our children and
servants, and that sort of thing."

"_Well!_" said Mr. S., "and I wish I could get any thing sensible about the
weather and children and servants, and that sort of thing, for my magazine.
I have a weakness in the direction of the sensible."

"But there never is any thing sensible said about any of them,--not that I
know of."

"Now, Wynnie, I am sure you are wrong," said my father. "There is your
friend, Mrs. Cromwell: I am certain she, sometimes at least, must say what
is worth hearing about such matters."

"Well, but she's an exception. Besides, she hasn't any children."

"Then," said my husband, "there's Lady Bernard"--

"Ah! but she was like no one else. Besides, she is almost a public
character, and any thing said about her would betray my original."

"It would be no matter. She is beyond caring for that now; and not one of
her friends could object to any thing you who loved her so much would say
about her."

The mention of this lady seemed to put some strength into me. I felt as if
I did know something worth telling, and I was silent in my turn.

"Certainly," Mr. S. resumed, "whatever is worth talking about is worth