B., Montagne de la Cour, Brussels," I read, in this
young woman's handwriting; and asked, turning round upon Laura, who
entered the room just as I discovered her guilt: "What have you been
writing to Colonel Newcome about, miss?"
"I wanted him to get me some lace," she said.
"To lace some nightcaps for me, didn't you, my dear? He is such a fine
judge of lace! If I had known you had been writing, I would have asked
you to send him a message. I want something from Brussels. Is the letter
--ahem--gone?" (In this artful way, you see, I just hinted that I should
like to see letter.).
"The letter is--ahem--gone," says Laura. "What do you want from Brussels,
Pen?"
"I want some Brussels sprouts, my love--they are so fine in their native
country."
"Shall I write to him to send the letter back?" palpitates poor little
Laura; for she thought her husband was offended, by using the ironic
method.
"No, you dear little woman! You need not send for letter the back: and
you need not tell me what was in it: and I will bet you a hundred yards
of lace to a cotton nightcap--and you know whether I, madam, am a man a
bonnet-de-coton--I will let you that I know what you have been writing
about, under pretence of a message about lace, to our Colonel.
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