“Not a drop. My poor weak head is upset in a moment. But you really need it, dear; and I can so thoroughly feel for you, because the poor Count, when my Flore was born, waited on me with such devotion, day and night, hand and foot.” “And I am sure Mr. Corklemore must do the same. No husband could help adoring you.” “Oh, he is very good, ‘according to his lights,’ as they say. But I have known him let me cough three times without getting up for the jujubes. And once—but perhaps I ought not to tell you: it was so very bad.” “Oh, you may safely tell me, dear. I will never repeat it to any one.” “He actually allowed me to sneeze in the carriage without saying that I must have a new fur cloak, or even asking if I had a cold.” “Oh dear, is that all? I may sneeze six times in an hour, and my husband take no notice, but run out and leave the front door open, and prune his horrid little trees. And then he shouts for his patent top–dressing. He thinks far more of dressing them than he does of dressing me.” “And donʼt you know the reason? Donʼt cry, sweet child; donʼt cry. I have had so much experience. I understand men so thoroughly.” “Oh yes, I know the reason. I am cross to him sometimes. And of course I canʼt expect a man with a mind like his——” “You may expect any man to be as wise as Solomon, if you only know how to manage him. It is part of the law of nature.” “Then I am sure I donʼt know what that means: except that people must get married, and ought to love one another.” “The law of nature is this. Between a wife and a husband there never must be a secret, except when the lady keeps one. Now, your husband is, to some extent, a rather superior man——” “Oh yes, to the very greatest extent. No one of any perception can help perceiving that.” “Then he is quite sure to attempt it; to reserve himself, upon _some_ point, in an unsympathetic attitude. This is just what you must not allow. You have no idea how it grows upon them, and how soon it supplants affection, and makes a married man a bachelor.” “Oh, how dreadful! But I really do think, dear, that you must be wrong this once. My husband has never kept anything from me; anything, I mean, which I ought to know.” “Then he told you about that poor wild Polly? How very good and kind of him!” “Polly! What Polly? You donʼt mean to say——” “No, no, dear, nothing of that sort! Only the mare running away with him at night through the thickest part of the forest.” “My Polly that eats from my hand! Run away with Rufus!” “Yes, your Polly. A perfect miracle that both of them were not killed. But, of course, he must have told you.” Then, after sundry ejaculations, Rosa learned all about that matter, and was shocked first, and then thankful, and then hurt.