Judge of my surprise, then, to hear Mrs.Jones exclaim, with a flushed face, "Indeed, Mr.Jones, this is too much! no difference, indeed?
A nice opinion people must have had of your wife, to see you going about with your bosom all gaping open in that style ?" "Nobody noticed it," said I in reply.

"Don't you see that the edges lie perfectly smooth together, as much so as if held by a button ?" But it was no use to say anything; Mrs.Jones was hurt at my not speaking of the button.
"I'm sure," she said, "that I am always ready to do anything for you.

I never complain about sewing on your buttons." "Nonsense, Mrs.Jones! don't take it so much to heart," I replied; "here, get your needle and thread, and you can have it all right in a minute.

It's but a trifle--I'm sure I havn't thought about it since I put on the shirt this morning." But all would not do--Mrs.Jones' grief was too real; and when I, losing to some extent, my patience, said fretfully, "I wish somebody would invent a shirt without buttons," she sighed deeply, and in a little while I saw her handkerchief go quietly to her eyes.

Again and again I tried the say-nothing plane; but it worked worse, if any thing, than the other; for Mrs.Jones was sure to find out the truth, and then she would be dreadfully hurt about my omission to speak.
And so the years have passed.