bled my after-dinner reflections as I sat that evening smoking
and sipping, sipping and smoking, at the Cafe de la Paix.

Presently in my dream I became aware of English voices near me, one of
which seemed familiar, and which I couldn't help overhearing. The
voice of the husband said,--you can never mistake the voice of the
husband,--

'T was the voice of the husband,
I heard him complain,--

the voice of the husband said: "Dora, I forbid you! I will NOT allow
my wife to be seen again in the Latin Quarter. I permitted you to go
once, as a concession, to the Cafe d'Harcourt; but once is enough. You
will please respect my wishes!"

"But," pleaded the dear little woman, whom I had an immediate impulse,
Perseus-like, to snatch from the jaws of her monster, and turning to
the other lady of the party of four,--"but Mrs. ---- has never been,
and she cannot well go without a chaperone. Surely it cannot matter for
once. It isn't as if I were there constantly."

"No!" said the husband, with the absurd pomposity of his tribe.

"I'm very sorry. Mrs. ---- will, of course, act as she pleases; but I
cannot allow you to do it, Dora."

At last the little wife showed some spirit.

"Don't talk to me like that, Will," she said. "I shall go if I please.
Surely I am my own property."

"Not at all!" at once flashed out the husband, wounded in that most
vital part of him, his sense of property. "There you mistake. You are
my property, MY chattel; you promised obedience to me; I bought you,
and you do my bidding!"

"Great heavens!" I ejaculated, and, springing up, found myself face to
face with a well-known painter whom you would have thought the most
Bohemian fellow in London. And Bohemian he is; but Bohemians are seldom
Bohemians for any one save themselves. They are terrible sticklers for
convention and even etiquette in other people.

We recognised each other with a laugh, and presently were at it, hammer
and tongs. I may say that we were all fairly intimate friends, and thus
had the advantage of entire liberty of speech. I looked daggers at the
husband; he looked daggers at me, and occasionally looking at his wife,
gave her a glance which was like the opening of Bluebeard's closet.
You could see the poor murdered bodies dangling within the shadowy
cupboard of his eye. Of course we got no further. Additional
opposition but further enraged him. He recapitulated what he would no
doubt call his arguments,--they soun