Conscious as he was of this masculine imperfection, and well aware that he could not keep up before his wife the appearance of a contentment which he was far from feeling, it was a relief to Arthur that the autocratic guardian of his wife’s health--the stout, somniferous lady, who looked the higher order of monthly nurse all over--objected strongly to any conversation taking place between her patient and the inexperienced young husband, who was “so attentive, bless you,” as she said afterwards to the Mrs. Harris of her elevated sphere, and who was “one of the best of ’usbands to the nicest young lady she had ever nussed.” Nor did Sophy, in her “mother’s prime of bliss,” desire and crave for more than the privilege of looking at her well-loved Arthur’s handsome face, of pressing very softly and tenderly the dear hand that held her own, and of murmuring into his bent-down ear that she was very, very happy. “Isn’t he a darling?” she whispered, alluding to the precious object of her new-found hopes; “I am sure--quite sure, though nurse said he didn’t--that he looked at me just now. You can see his dear little face. There!” And that Arthur might enjoy this privilege, the happy young creature turned away a few inches of the bedcovering, gazing down the while with touching fondness on her sleeping treasure. And Arthur--who really was goodnatured, and who, but for the anxieties and annoyances which were oppressing him, would probably have been almost as contented and joyous as herself--did his best to seem interested in the small atom of humanity which he could hardly bring himself to believe he had the right to call his son; but smile and flatter tenderly as he might, Sophy, with the intuitive perception that love alone can give, heard a something in his voice which told her that all was not as it should be with the father of her child. “Now, Atty,” she said, pressing his hand to her soft lips, “you have been teased and worried again, I know you have, by something or somebody. It isn’t poor papa, is it, dear? I daresay he is tiresome, poor old man, just now; but you musn’t mind. It is all so new to him, you know, and he thinks baby such a wonderful thing.” “Well, and so he is,” Arthur said with a smile, which quite reassured the young mother, who was so willing to see everything _en rose_, “and your father is a brick, and doesn’t bore me the least in life. What made you fancy such nonsense, you foolish child? O, I’m to go, am I? I wish we had you downstairs again, dear. The governor and I miss you dreadfully at dinner. By Jove, there’s the bell, and I haven’t even washed my hands--all your fault, Fee,” and he left her with the memory of another kiss to brighten her hours of silence.