Confessions of a Well-Meaning Woman
and soda—two, if he likes—, one glass of port and nothing else. The moment he takes liberties with himself, his digestion suffers, he cannot sleep—and you pay the penalty. Similarly with what he eats; he must never be given butcher’s meat more than once a day, shell-fish of every kind are poison to him, and, though he will never admit it, any rich sweets tell their tale next day. I could give you a list, but you will find out for yourself. . . Smoking again . . . one cigar does him no harm, after two he can hardly breathe; all the Spenworths are liable to bronchitis. And exercise. My husband was quite an athlete as a young man; he says he doesn’t need exercise, but I know better. If I may speak quite openly, he suffers from what men call ‘liver.’ . . I should dearly like to give you a little list of things, if you won’t think me impertinent; one does not live with a man for more than thirty years without coming to regard him as one’s child. . .”
And, whether she liked it or not, then and there, I took pencil and paper and just jotted things down. He would never put on his winter underclothes unless some one reminded him; result—a week in bed with a severe chill. . .
“You make him out to be a complete crock,” said Mrs. Templedown. Poor soul! one hardly looked for any great elegance from her. . .
197
