“Now,” said I, “when your husband explodes, as you think he will, neither say nor do anything; sit and gaze out of the window with that far-away, sad look women know so well how to affect.  If you can summon tears at pleasure, a few would not be amiss; a gentle shower, not enough to make the nose and eyes red or to detract from your beauty.  Men cannot resist beauty and tears.  Never mar their effect with anything bordering on sobs and hysteria; such violent manifestations being neither refined nor artistic.  A scene in which one person does the talking must be limited in time.  No ordinary man can keep at white heat fifteen minutes; if his victim says nothing, he will soon exhaust himself.  Remember every time you speak in the way of defense, you give him a new text on which to branch out again.  If silence is ever golden, it is when a husband is in a tantrum.”

In due time Mr. S. arrived, laden with Christmas presents, and Charlotte came over to tell me that she had passed through the ordeal.  I will give the scene in her own words as nearly as possible.  “My husband came yesterday, just before dinner, and, as I expected him, I had all things in order.  He seemed very happy to see me and the children, and we had a gay time looking at our presents and chatting about Washington and all that had happened since we parted.  It made me sad, in the midst of our happiness, to think how soon the current of his feelings would change, and I wished in my soul that I had not bought the stoves.  But, at last, dinner was announced, and I knew that the hour had come.  He ran upstairs to give a few touches to his toilet, when lo! the shining stoves and pipes caught his eyes.  He explored the upper apartments and came down the back stairs, glanced at the kitchen stove, then into the dining room, and stood confounded, for a moment, before the nickel-plated ‘Morning Glory.’  Then he exclaimed, ’Heavens and earth!  Charlotte, what have you been doing?’ I remembered what you told me and said nothing, but looked steadily out of the window.  I summoned no tears, however, for I felt more like laughing than crying; he looked so ridiculous flying round spasmodically, like popcorn on a hot griddle, and talking as if making a stump speech on the corruptions of the Democrats.  The first time he paused to take breath I said, in my softest tones:  ’William, dinner is waiting; I fear the soup will be cold.’  Fortunately he was hungry, and that great central organ of life and happiness asserted its claims on his attention, and he took his seat at the table.  I broke what might have been an awkward silence, chatting with the older children about their school lessons.  Fortunately they were late, and did not know what had happened, so they talked to their father and gradually restored his equilibrium.  We had a very good dinner, and I have not heard a word about the stoves since.  I suppose we shall have another scene when the bill is presented.”