"Bless the child, how intently she looks and listens."
He little knew that I was trying to find out for myself, and by my mother's wit, which were good husbands and which were bad. I did not like to address any questions to my parents on the subject, lest they should wonder why the subject interested me.
Once, when I was with my mother—we were walking up and down the picture gallery—I did venture to ask her:
"Mamma, what makes husbands bad? Why do they make their wives cry?"
How my beautiful mother looked at me. There were laughter, fun and pain in her eyes altogether.
"What makes my darling ask such a question?" she replied. "I am very surprised: it is such a strange question for my Laura to ask! I hope all husbands are good."
"No, not all," I hastened to answer; "Lady Conyngham's was not—I heard her say so."
"I am sorry you heard it—you must not repeat it; you are much too young to talk about husbands, Laura."
Of course I did not mention then again—equally of course I did not think less of this mysterious kind of beings.
My beautiful mother was very happy with her husband, Sir Roland—she loved him exceedingly, and he was devoted to her. The other ladies said he spoiled her, he was so attentive, so devoted, so kind. I have met with every variety of species which puzzled my childish mind, but none so perfect as he was then.