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MRS. CURTAIN LECTURES. MRS. r.\xDLF., WEARIED OF )I.\RGATF., HAS "A GREAT DESIRE TO SEE FRc\NCI! Bless me. al11't you tired, Caudle ? No > Well, was there ever such a man Rut nothing ever tires you, Of course, it's an very well for you yes, you can read your newspaper and — hat ? So can ? And 1 wonder what would become of the children if 1 did ? Xo; its enough for their father to lose his precious time, talking ahout politics, and bishops, and lords, anfl a pack of people who wouldn't care a pin if we hadn't a roof to cover well enough for-no, Caudle, no: I am not going to wony you I never worried you yet, and it isn't likely I should begin now, But that's always the way with you —always. I'm sure we should he the happiest couple alive, only YOI1 do so like to have all the talk to yourself. We're out upon pleasure, and therefore let's be comfortable. Still, 1 must say. it: when you like, you're an aggravating man, Caudle, and you know it What have you done now ? There. now we wont talk of it. No; let's go to sleep otherwise, we shall quanel-I know we shall..W1111t have you rlone, indeed ? That I can't leave my home for a few days, but 1 must he insulted Everybody upon the pier iaw it- Saw 1l,hat 7 How can you lie there in the bed and ask me ? Saw what. indeed Of course, it was a planned thing-regularly seWed before you left London, Oh yes I 1ikp your innocence, Mr. Caudle; not knowing what 1 am talking about. It's a heart-breaking thing for a woman to say of her own husband hut you've been a wicked man to me, Yes and all your tossing and tumbling about in the bed won't mak., it any better. Oh, it's easy enough to call a woman dear sou! 1 must be very dear, indeed, to you. when you hring down Miss Pretty- man to-therf> now you needn't shout like a wild savage Do yon know that you're not in your own house-do you know that we're in lodgings ? What do you suppose the people will think of us ? You nepr1n't call out in that manner, for they can hear every word that's said. What do you say 1 Why don't hold my tongue then ? To he sure anything for an excuse with you. Anything to stop my mouth, Miss Prettyman's to follow you here, and I'm to say nothing. I know she has followed you; and if you were to go before a magistrate, and take a shilling oath to the contrary, I wouldn't believe you. No Caudle I wouldn't. TTery well, then ? ITa! what a heart you must have, to My very well;' and after the wife I've been to you, I'm to be brought from my own home-dragged down here to the sea- side—to he laughpd at before the tell me Do you think I didn't see how she looked at you-how she puckered up her farthing mouth—and—what ? Why did 1 kiss her then ? th8.t to rIo with it! Appearances are one thing, 1\lr. Caudle; and feelings are another. As if women can't kiss one another without meaning anything by it! And you-I could sce you-looked as cold and as fonnal at hpr as-well, Caudle I, be the hypocrite you are for the world! There, now I've heard all that story. I dare say she did come down to join her brother. How very lucky, though, that yon should he here, Ha! ha! how very lucky that—ugh ugh! ugh and with the cough I've got upon me-oh, you've a Iwart like a sea-side flint! Yes, that's right. That's just like your humanity. I can't l'atnh a cold. but it must be my own f'-lu1t- it must be my thin shoes, I dare say you'd like to see me in ploughmen's boots; 'twould be no matter to you how 1 dis- figured myself. Miss Prettyman's foot, now, would be another thing—no doubt, I thought when you would make me leave home-I thought we were coming here on pleasure; but it's always the way you embitter my life, The sooner that I'm out of the worLl, the better. What do you say ? Nothing 7 But I know what you mean, hetter than if you talked an hour. I only hope you'll get a better wife, that's all, Mr. Caudle. What? You'd not try? you ? I know you. In six months you'd fill up my place; yes, and dreadfully mr dear children would suffer for it, Caudle, if you roar in that way, the people will give us warn- ing to-morrow. Can't I be quiet then? like your artfulness; anything to make me hold my tongue. But we won't quarrel. I'm sure if it depended upon me. we might be as happy as doves. 1 mean it-and you needn't groan when I say it. Good night. Caudle. What do you say 1 Bless me! Well, rou are a dear soul, Caudle; anù if it wasn't for that Miss Prettyman—no, I am not torturing you, I know very well what I am doing, and I wouldn't torture you for the world; but you don't know what the feelings of a wife are,. Caudle; you don't. Caudle—I sar, Caudle. Just a word, dear. Weill Now, why should yon snap me up in that way. You want to go to sleep 1 So do I; hut that's no reason you should speak to me in that manner. You know. dear, you once promised to take mp to France. You don't recollect it ? like you; yon don't recollect many" things you've promised me; but 1 do. There's a boat goes on Wednesday for Boulogne, and comes back the day afterwards. What of it ? Why, for that time we could leave the children with the girls, and go nicely. Non8ense? Of course if 1 want anything it's always nonsense. Other men can take their wives half over the world; but you think it quitp enough to bring me down here to this hole of a place, where I know every pebble on the beach like an old acquaint- ance-where there's nothing to bp seen but the same machines -the same jetty—the same donkeys—the same everything. But then, I'd forgot; Margate has an attraction for you-Miss Prettyman's hare. No; I'm not censorious, and 1 wouldn't backbite an angel; but the way in which that young woman walks the sands at all hours—there there !-I've done I can't open my lips about that creature, but you always stonn, You know that 1 always wanted to go to France amI YOU bring me down here only on purpose that I should see the French Cliffs—just to tantalise me, and for nothing else. If I'd remained at home -and it was against my will I ever came here —I should never have thought of France but,—to have it staring in one's face all day. and not to be allowed to go it's worse than crupI. Mr. Caudle-its brutal. Other people can take their wives to Paris; but you always keep me moped up at home. And what for ? Why, that I may know nothing—yes just on purpose to make me look little, and for nothing else. Hea1;en bias the woman Ha you've good reason to say that, Mr. Caudle for I'm sure she's little blessed by you. She's bcen kept a prisoner all her life--has never gone anywhere-oh yes! that's your old excusc,-talking of the children. I want to go to France, and I should like to know what the children have to do with it ? They are not babies 1Ww-are they ? But you've always thrown the chilùren in my face. If Miss Pretty- man-there now do you hear what you've done-shouting in that manner ? The other lodgers are knocking overhead who do vou think will have the face to look at 'em to-morrow morn- ing 1 people's rest in that way Well, Caudle—I declare i'ts getting daylight, and what an obstinate man you are !-tell me, shall 1 go to France? I forget," says Caudle, "my precise answer; but I think 1 gave her a very wide permission to go somewhere-whereupon. though not without remonstrance as to the place-she went to sleep,-Punch,

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