pang that you might spare her if you would.'

'Well--it's not my fault,' said he, gazing carelessly up at the ceiling
and plunging his hands into his pockets: 'if my ongoings don't suit her,
she should tell me so.'

'Is she not exactly the wife you wanted? Did you not tell Mr. Huntingdon
you must have one that would submit to anything without a murmur, and
never blame you, whatever you did?'

'True, but we shouldn't always have what we want: it spoils the best of
us, doesn't it? How can I help playing the deuce when I see it's all one
to her whether I behave like a Christian or like a scoundrel, such as
nature made me? and how can I help teasing her when she's so invitingly
meek and mim, when she lies down like a spaniel at my feet and never so
much as squeaks to tell me that's enough?'

'If you are a tyrant by nature, the temptation is strong, I allow; but no
generous mind delights to oppress the weak, but rather to cherish and
protect.'

'I don't oppress her; but it's so confounded flat to be always cherishing
and protecting; and then, how can I tell that I am oppressing her when
she "melts away and makes no sign"? I sometimes think she has no feeling
at all; and then I go on till she cries, and that satisfies me.'

'Then you do delight to oppress her?'

'I don't, I tell you! only when I'm in a bad humour, or a particularly
good one, and want to afflict for the pleasure of comforting; or when she
looks flat and wants shaking up a bit. And sometimes she provokes me by
crying for nothing, and won't tell me what it's for; and then, I allow,
it enrages me past bearing, especially when I'm not my own man.'

'As is no doubt generally the case on such occasions,' said I. 'But in
future, Mr. Hattersley, when you see her looking flat, or crying for
"nothing" (as you call it), ascribe it all to yourself: be assured it is
something you have done amiss, or your general misconduct, that
distresses her.'

'I don't believe it. If it were, she should tell me so: I don't like
that way of moping and fretting in silence, and saying nothing: it's not
honest. How can she expect me to mend my ways at that rate?'

'Perhaps she gives you credit for having more sense than you possess, and
deludes herself with the hope that you will one day see your own errors
and repair them, if left to your own reflection.'

'None of your sneers, Mrs. Huntingdon. I have the sense to see that I'm
not always quite correct, but sometimes I t