that's right. That's just like your humanity. I can't catch a cold,
but it must be my own fault--it must be my thin shoes. I daresay
you'd like to see me in ploughman's boots; 'twould be no matter to
you how I disfigured myself. Miss Prettyman's foot, NOW, would be
another thing--no doubt.

"I thought when you would make me leave home--I thought we were
coming here on pleasure: but it's always the way you embitter my
life. The sooner that I'm out of the world the better. What do you
say?

"NOTHING?

"But I know what you mean, better than if you talked an hour. I only
hope you'll get a better wife, that's all, Mr. Caudle. What?

"YOU'D NOT TRY?

"Wouldn't you? I know you. In six months you'd fill up my place;
yes, and dreadfully my dear children would suffer for it.

"Caudle, if you roar in that way, the people will give us warning to-
morrow.

"CAN'T I BE QUIET, THEN?

"Yes--that's like your artfulness: anything to make me hold my
tongue. But we won't quarrel. I'm sure if it depended upon me, we
might be as happy as doves. I mean it--and you needn't groan when I
say it. Good-night, Caudle. What do you say?