Then Ernest began.
"What was it vexed you, dear? What is it you can't stand? Tell me. I
am your husband, I love you, I want to make you happy."
"Why, you are having so many secrets that you keep from me; and you
treat me as if I were only a child, consulting Martha about
everything. And of late you seem to have forgotten that I am at the
table and never help me to anything!"
"Secrets!" he re-echoed. "What possible secrets can I have?"
"I don't know," I said, sinking wearily back on the sofa. "Indeed,
Ernest, I don't want to be selfish or exacting, but I am very
unhappy."
"Yes, I see it, poor child. And if I have neglected you at the table
I do not wonder you are out of patience. I know how it has happened.
While you were pouring out the coffee I busied myself in caring for
my father and Martha, and so forgot you. I do not give this as an
excuse, but as a reason. I have really no excuse, and am ashamed of
myself."
"Don't say that, darling," I cried, "it is I who ought to be ashamed
for making such an ado about a trifle."
"It is not a trifle," he said; "and now to the other points. I dare
say I have been careless about consulting Martha. But she has always
been a sort of oracle in our family, and we all look up to her, and
she is so much older than you. Then as to the secrets. Martha comes
to my office to help me look over my books.
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