hink that's no great matter,
as long as I injure nobody but myself--'

'It is a great matter,' interrupted I, 'both to yourself (as you will
hereafter find to your cost) and to all connected with you, most
especially your wife. But, indeed, it is nonsense to talk about injuring
no one but yourself: it is impossible to injure yourself, especially by
such acts as we allude to, without injuring hundreds, if not thousands,
besides, in a greater or less, degree, either by the evil you do or the
good you leave undone.' 'And as I was saying,' continued he, 'or would
have said if you hadn't taken me up so short, I sometimes think I should
do better if I were joined to one that would always remind me when I was
wrong, and give me a motive for doing good and eschewing evil, by
decidedly showing her approval of the one and disapproval of the other.'

'If you had no higher motive than the approval of your fellow-mortal, it
would do you little good.'

'Well, but if I had a mate that would not always be yielding, and always
equally kind, but that would have the spirit to stand at bay now and
then, and honestly tell me her mind at all times, such a one as yourself
for instance. Now, if I went on with you as I do with her when I'm in
London, you'd make the house too hot to hold me at times, I'll be sworn.'

'You mistake me: I'm no termagant.'

'Well, all the better for that, for I can't stand contradiction, in a
general way, and I'm as fond of my own will as another; only I think too
much of it doesn't answer for any man.'

'Well, I would never contradict you without a cause, but certainly I
would always let you know what I thought of your conduct; and if you
oppressed me, in body, mind, or estate, you should at least have no
reason to suppose "I didn't mind it."'

'I know that, my lady; and I think if my little wife were to follow the
same plan, it would be better for us both.'

'I'll tell her.'

'No, no, let her be; there's much to be said on both sides, and, now I
think upon it, Huntingdon often regrets that you are not more like her,
scoundrelly dog that he is, and you see, after all, you can't reform him:
he's ten times worse than I. He's afraid of you, to be sure; that is,
he's always on his best behaviour in your presence--but--'

'I wonder what his worst behaviour is like, then?' I could not forbear
observing.

'Why, to tell you the truth, it's very bad indeed--isn't it, Hargrave?'
said he, addressing that gent