"
"My wife appeals to my father," thinks poor Clive; "it is from him she
asks counsel, and not from me. Be it about the ribbon in her cap, or any
other transaction in our lives, she takes her colour from his opinion,
and goes to him for advice, and I have to wait till it is given, and
conform myself to it. If I differ from the dear old father, I wound him;
if I yield up my opinion, as I do always, it is with a bad grace, and I
wound him still. With the best intentions in the world, what a slave's
life it is that he has made for me!"
"How interested you are in your papers!" resumes the sprightly nosey.
"What can you find in those horrid politics?" Both gentlemen are looking
at their papers with all their might, and no doubt cannot see one single
word which those brilliant and witty leading articles contain.
"Clive is like you, Rosey," says the Colonel, laying his paper down, "and
does not care for politics."
"He only cares for pictures, papa," says Mrs. Clive. "He would not drive
with me yesterday in the Park, but spent hours in his room, while you
were toiling in the City, poor papa!--spent hours painting a horrid
beggar-man dressed up as a monk.
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