_Sir W._ The old answer. Then she's so nervous. A nervous wife is worse than a perpetual blister; and then, as the man says in the play, your nervous patients are always ailing, but _never die_. Zounds! why do I bear it? 'tis my folly, my weakness, to dread the censure of the world, and to sacrifice every comfort of my fire side to the ideal advantage of being esteemed a _good husband_. (_Lady Worret is heard speaking behind_) Hark! now she begins her morning work, giving more orders in a minute than can be executed in a month, and teasing my daughter to death to teach her to keep her temper; yet every body congratulates me on having so good a wife; every body envies me so excellent an economist; every body thinks me the happiest man alive; and nobody knows what a miserable mortal I am. _Lady W._ (_behind_) And harkye, William, (_entering with servant_) tell the coachman to bring the chariot in a quarter of an hour: and William, run with these books immediately to the rector's; and William, bring up breakfast this moment. _Will._ Yes, my lady: (_aside_) Lord have mercy upon us! [_Exit._ _Lady W._ My dear sir Willoughby, I beg a thousand pardons; but you are always so indulgent that you really spoil me. I'm sure you think me a tiresome creature. _Sir W._ No, no, my life, not at all. I should be very ungrateful if I didn't value you _just exactly as highly_ as you deserve. _Lady W._ I certainly _deserve_ a good scolding: I do indeed. I think if you scolded me a little I should behave better. _Sir W._ Well, then, as you encourage me, my love, I must own that a little more punctuality would greatly heighten the zest of your society. _Lady W._ And yet, sir Willoughby, you _must_ acknowledge that my time is ever dedicated to that proper vigilance which the superintendance of so large an establishment undoubtedly requires. _Sir W._ Why, true, my love; but somehow I can't help thinking, that, as my fortune is so ample, it is quite unnecessary that you should undergo so much fatigue: for instance, I _do_ think that the wife of a baronet of 12,000l. a year owes it to her rank to be otherwise employed than in hunting after the housemaid, or sacrificing her time in the storeroom in counting candles, or weighing out soap, starch, powder-blue, and brown sugar. _Lady W. (in tears)_ This is unkind, sir Willoughby, this is very unkind. _Sir W._ So! as usual, here's a breeze springing up. What the devil shall I say to sooth her? Wife, wife! you drive me mad. You first beg me to scold you, and then are offended because I obligingly comply with your request. _Lady W._ No, sir Willoughby, I am only _surprised_ that you should so little know the value of a wife who daily degrades herself for your advantage.