She had got the habit of exclaiming at the end of her remarks, 'No matter; our clock strikes soon!' in a way that communicated to me an obscure idea of a door going to open unexpectedly in one of the walls, and conduct us, by subterranean passages, into a new country.

My father's method of rebuking her anxious nature was to summon his cook, the funniest of Frenchmen, Monsieur Alphonse, and issue orders for a succession of six dinner-parties.

'And now, ma'am, you have occupation for your mind,' he would say.
To judge by the instantaneous composure of her whole appearance, he did produce a temporary abatement of her malady.

The good soul bustled out of the room in attendance upon M.Alphonse, and never complained while the dinners lasted, but it was whispered that she had fits in the upper part of the house.

No sooner did my father hear the rumour than he accused her to her face of this enormity, telling her that he was determined to effect a permanent cure, even though she should drive him to unlimited expense.