As a proof of it, the other day, going to St. Thomas's to hear Father
Nicholas, who is one of our shining lights, you experienced totally
different sentiments; a general feeling of discontent and doubt and
nervous irritability at every sentence of the preacher. Your soul did
not soar heavenward with the same unreserved confidence; you left St.
Thomas's with your head hot and your feet cold; and you so far forgot
yourself as to say, as you got into your carriage, that Father Nicholas
was a Gallican devoid of eloquence. Your coachman heard it. And,
finally, on reaching home you thought your drawing-room too small and
your husband growing too fat. Why, I again ask you, this string of
vexatious impressions? If you remember rightly, dear Madame, you wore
for the first time the day before yesterday that horrible little violet
bonnet, which is such a disgusting failure. First pair of breeches, dear
Madame.

Would you like a final example? Observe your husband. Yesterday he went
out in a bad temper--he had breakfasted badly--and lo! in the evening,
at a quarter to seven, he came home from the Chamber joyful and well-
pleased, a smile on his lips, and good-humor in his eye. He kissed you
on the forehead with a certain unconstraint, threw a number of pamphlets
and papers with an easy gesture on the sidetable, sat down to table,
found the soup delicious, and ate joyously. "What is the matter with my
husband?" you asked yourself . . . . I will explain. Your husband
spoke yesterday for the first time in the building, you know. He said--
the sitting was a noisy one, the Left were threshing out some infernal
questions--he said, during the height of the uproar, and rapping with his
paper-knife on his desk: "But we can not hear!" And as these words were
received on all sides with universal approbation and cries of "Hear,
hear!" he gave his thoughts a more parliamentary expression by adding:
"The voice of the honorable gentleman who is speaking does not reach us."