"And where's the good of seeing me here, dear Margaret? Just consider, I always come to you anxious; there's always a risk, besides, of discovery." "Where you are is to me a paradise." "Oh, darling, do _not_ talk rubbish. This vulgar, odious little place! No place can be _either_--_quite_, of course--where _you_ are. But you must see what it is--a paradise"--and he laughed peevishly--"of red brick, and lilacs, and laburnums--a paradise for old Mr. Dowlas, the tallow-chandler." There was a little tremor in Margaret's lip, and the water stood in her large eyes; her hand was, as it were, on the coffin-edge; she was looking in the face of a dead romance. "Now, you really must not shed tears over _that_ speech. You are too much given to weeping, Margaret. What have I said to vex you? It merely amounts to this, that we live just now in the future; we can't well deny _that_, darling. But the time will come at last, and my queen enjoy her own." And so saying he kissed her, and told her to be a good little girl; and from the window Miss Sheckleton handed them tea, and then she ran up to the nursery. "You _do_ look very tired, Cleve," said Margaret, looking into his anxious face. "I _am_ tired, darling," he said, with just a degree of impatience in his tone; "I said so--horribly tired." "I wish so much you were liberated from that weary House of Commons." "Now, my wise little woman is talking of what she doesn't understand--not the least; besides, what would you have me turn to? I should be totally without resource and pursuit--don't you see? We must be reasonable. No, it is not that in the least that tires me, but I'm really overwhelmed with anxieties, and worried by my uncle, who wants me to marry, and thinks I can marry whom I please--that's all." "I sometimes think, Cleve, I've spoiled your fortunes," with a great sigh, said Margaret, watching his face. "Now, where's the good of saying that, my little woman? I'm only talking of my uncle's teasing me, and wishing he'd let us both alone." Here came a little pause. "Is that the baby?" said Margaret, raising her head and listening. "I don't hear our baby or any one else's," said Cleve. "I fancied I heard it cry, but it wasn't." "You must think of me more, and of that child less, darling--you must, indeed," said Cleve, a little sourly. I think the poor heart was pleased, thinking this jealousy; but I fear it was rather a splenetic impulse of selfishness, and that the baby was, in his eyes, a bore pretty often. "Does the House sit to-night, Cleve, darling?" "Does it, indeed? Why it's sitting now. We are to have the second reading of the West India Bill on to-night, and I must be there--yes--in an hour"--he was glancing at his watch--"and heaven knows at what hour in the morning we shall get away."