Yes, for all her youth, Polly had quite a character of her own; and even
thus early her husband sometimes ran up against a certain native
sturdiness of opinion. But this did not displease him; on the contrary,
he would have thanked you for a wife who was only an echo of himself. To
take the case of the animals. He had a profound respect for those
creatures to which speech has been denied; and he treated the four-footers
that dwelt under his roof as his fellows, humanising them,
reading his own thoughts into them, and showing more consideration for
their feelings than if they had been able to speak up for themselves.
Polly saw this in the light of an exquisite joke. She was always kind to
Pompey and the stately Palmerston, and would as soon have forgotten to
set Richard's dinner before him as to feed the pair; but they remained
"the dog" and "the cat" to her, and, if they had enough to eat, and
received neither kicks nor blows, she could not conceive of their souls
asking more. It went beyond her to study the cat's dislike to being
turned off its favourite chair, or to believe that the dog did not make
dirty prints on her fresh scrubbed floor out of malice prepense; it was
also incredible that he should have doggy fits of depression, in which
up he must to stick a cold, slobbery snout into a warm human hand. And
when Richard tried to conciliate Palmerston stalking sulky to the door,
or to pet away the melancholy in the rejected Pompey's eyes, Polly had
to lay down her sewing and laugh at her husband, so greatly did his
behaviour amuse her.
Pages:
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182