Still I am happy, utterly so, as one must be who is without care or sorrow, whose lightest wish meets instant fulfilment, and less and less frequently am I haunted by the vague fear of ingratitude--by the thought of how poor a return I make for all the good showered upon me, as I see how sufficient I am for my husband's happiness: while only on rare occasions does he betray his passionate longing for a more perfect hold upon my heart by the suppressed but evident jealousy with which he regards my love for my family. CHAPTER XVIII "Whom would you like to invite here for the shooting?" asks Marmaduke, at breakfast, to my consternation. "I suppose we had better fill the house?" "Oh, 'Duke," I cry, in terror, "must you do that? And must I entertain them all?" "I suppose so," replies he, laughing; "though I dare say if you will let them alone they will entertain themselves. If you get a good many men and women together they generally contrive to work out their own amusement." "I have seen so few people in my life," I say, desperately, "and none of them grand people. That is, lords, I mean, and that. I shall be frightened out of my life." "My acquaintance with lords is not so extensive as you seem to imagine. I know a few other people. We will limit the lords, if you wish to." "Baronets and very rich people are just as bad." "Nonsense, darling! I will be here to help you if they grow very dangerous, and get altogether beyond control." "Oh, that is all very well," I say, feeling inclined to cry, "but you will be out shooting all day, and I will be left at home to speak to them. I don't mind the men so much, but the women will be dreadful." This last sentence appears to afford Marmaduke the liveliest amusement. He laughs until I begin to feel really hurt at his want of sympathy. "You don't care for me," I cry, with petulant reproach, "or you would not try to make me so unhappy." "My darling child, how can you say so? Unhappy! because a few people are kind enough to come and pay you a visit. You say I do not 'care for you' because I ask you to be civil to two or three women!" Here he laughs again a little, though evidently against his will. "Oh, Phyllis! if you are going to cry I will not say another word about it. Come, look up, my pet, and I promise to forget our friends for this autumn at least. We will spend it by ourselves; though I must confess"--regretfully--"it seems to me a sin to leave all those birds in peace. Now are you satisfied?" But I am not: I am only ashamed of myself. Is this childish fear of strangers the proper spirit for a grown-up married woman to betray? I dry my eyes and make a secret determination to go through with it, no matter what it costs me. "No, no," I say, heroically; "let them come. It is very stupid of me to feel nervous about it. I dare say I shall like them all immensely when they are once here; and--and--perhaps they too will like me."