Under cover of these primeval sounds Lady Bassett drew her husband a little apart, and looking in his face with piteous wistfulness, said, “You won't mind Richard Bassett and his baby now?”
“Not I.”
“You will never have another fit while you live?”
“I promise.”
“You will always be happy?”
“I must be an ungrateful scoundrel else, my dear.”
“Then baby is our best friend. Oh, you little angel!” And she pounced on the mite, and kissed it far harder than Sir Charles had. Heaven knows what these gentle creatures are so rough with their mouths to children, but so it is.
And now how can a mere male relate all the pretty childish things that were done and said to baby, and of baby, before the inevitable squalling began, and baby was taken away to be consoled by another of his subjects.
Sir Charles and Lady Bassett had a thousand things to tell each other, to murmur in each other's ears, sitting lovingly close to each other.
But when all was quiet, and everybody else was in bed, Lady Bassett plucked up courage and said, “Charles, I am not quite happy. There is one thing wanting.” And then she hid her face in her hands and blushed. “I cannot nurse him.”