"I don't have time to think about that part," she returned. "I am always working. When I've got her all nice and fresh, and laid her on the bed, she begins to cry for her bottle. Then, while I am heating the milk, she cries to be walked, and, by the time the bottle is ready, she is so red in the face she can't drink it, and she spills it all over herself. Then I begin and go through it all again."
"What a little beast she is," said Algarcife, surveying the baby with parental displeasure. "What a pity she isn't a Japanese! Japanese babies never cry." Then he grew serious. "I sometimes wonder how you stand it," he added. "Here, give me the little devil!"
Mariana rescued the baby's rattle from its throat and laid it in the crib. It screamed, and she took it up again.
"There is a good deal in having to," she replied.
Algarcife walked to the window and stood looking down into the street. His brow was gloomy. Suddenly he faced her. "Are you sorry that you married me, Mariana?"
Mariana did not impulsively negative the question, as he had half expected. She even appeared to consider it. Then she slowly shook her head.
"I should have been more unhappy if I hadn't," she answered.
"It would have been a confounded sight better if you had never seen me."
But Mariana put the child down and fell into his outstretched arms.
"No, no," she said; "but I am tired—so tired."