"I wish so much you were liberated from that weary House of Commons."
"Now, my wise little woman is talking of what she doesn't understand—not the least; besides, what would you have me turn to? I should be totally without resource and pursuit—don't you see? We must be reasonable. No, it is not that in the least that tires me, but I'm really overwhelmed with anxieties, and worried by my uncle, who wants me to marry, and thinks I can marry whom I please—that's all."
"I sometimes think, Cleve, I've spoiled your fortunes," with a great sigh, said Margaret, watching his face.
"Now, where's the good of saying that, my little woman? I'm only talking of my uncle's teasing me, and wishing he'd let us both alone."
Here came a little pause.
"Is that the baby?" said Margaret, raising her head and listening.
"I don't hear our baby or any one else's," said Cleve.
"I fancied I heard it cry, but it wasn't."
"You must think of me more, and of that child less, darling—you must, indeed," said Cleve, a little sourly.
I think the poor heart was pleased, thinking this jealousy; but I fear it was rather a splenetic impulse of selfishness, and that the baby was, in his eyes, a bore pretty often.