“He laid his head against Cherry, who was standing by his chair, put an arm round her, and said, ‘There!’ and she gave him such a smile as I would not have missed seeing on any account.  ‘Mine now,’ she said.  ‘Best!’ he said.  He is too much tired and worn out to vex himself about anything.”

“Where are they to go?  Not to Ewmouth, or all the family worries would come upon them.  Alda would give him no peace.”

“Certainly not there.  Brownlow advises Rockquay.  His delicate brother is a curate there, and it agrees with him better than any other place.  So I am to go and see for a house for them.  It is the very best thing for Cherry.”

“Indeed it is.  Was not she like herself last night?  Anna says she has never brightened up so much before!  I do believe that if Clement goes on mending, the dear person will have a good time yet; nay, all the better now that she is free to be a thorough-going Underwood again.”

“You Underwooder than Underwood!”

“Exactly!  I never did like-—Yes, Lance, I am going to have it out.  I do think Clement would have done better to let her alone.”

“He did let her alone.  He told me so.”

“Yes, but she let out to me the difference between that time and the one of the first offer when dear Felix could not keep back his delight at keeping her; whereas she could not help seeing that she was a burthen on Clement’s soul, between fear of neglecting her and that whirl of parish work, and that St. Wulstan’s Hall was wanted for the girls’ school.  Besides, Wilmet persuaded her.”

“She did.  But it turned out well.  The old man worshipped her, and she was very fond of him.”

“Oh! very well in a way, but you know better, Lance.”

“Well, perhaps he did not begin young enough.  He was a good, religious man, but Pro Ecclesia Dei had not been his war-cry from his youth, and he did not understand, and thought it clerical; good, but outside his life.  Still, she was happy.”

“Petting, Society, Art, travels!  I had rather have had our two first years of tiffs than all that sort of happiness.”

“Tiffs!  I thought we might have gone in for the Dunmow flitch.”

“You might!  Do you mean that you forget how fractious and nasty and abominable I was, and how many headaches I gave you?”

“Only what you had to put up with.”

“You don’t recollect that first visit of my father’s, when I was so frightfully cross because you said we must ask the Lambs and Bruces to dinner?  You came down in the morning white as a ghost, an owl in its blinkers, and though I know you would rather have died than have uttered a word, no sooner were you off than he fell upon me with, ’Mrs. Daisy, I give you to understand that you haven’t a husband made of such tough commodity as you are used to at home, and if you worry him you will have to rue it.’”

“What an ass I must have looked!  Did I really go playing the martyr?”