"No;—to Matching. There is some discomfort about that."
"I suppose," said Lord Cantrip,—speaking almost in a whisper, although they were closeted together,—"I suppose the Duchess is a little troublesome."
"She's the dearest woman in the world," said the Duke of St. Bungay. "I love her almost as I do my own daughter. And she is most zealous to serve him."
"I fancy she overdoes it."
"No doubt."
"And that he suffers from perceiving it," said Lord Cantrip.
"But a man hasn't a right to suppose that he shall have no annoyances. The best horse in the world has some fault. He pulls, or he shies, or is slow at his fences, or doesn't like heavy ground. He has no right to expect that his wife shall know everything and do everything without a mistake. And then he has such faults of his own! His skin is so thin. Do you remember dear old Brock? By heavens;—there was a covering, a hide impervious to fire or steel! He wouldn't have gone into tantrums because his wife asked too many people to the house. Nevertheless, I won't give up all hope."
"A man's skin may be thickened, I suppose."
"No doubt;—as a blacksmith's arm."
But the Duke of St. Bungay, though he declared that he wouldn't give up hope, was very uneasy on the matter. "Why won't you let me go?" the other Duke had said to him.