For the past two or three months, it had been Mr. Baxter's regular
habit to spend every Wednesday evening with the woman of his
choice, when he either talked of his children and their
peculiarities, or his servants and their vices, or, on the other
hand, Miss Roberts attempted to form his mind, as she called it,
by improving and instructive conversation. Their interviews, it
must be confessed, were never of the nature of a duet. Either Mr.
Baxter prattled about trifles, and Aunt Jane was politely
indifferent; or else Miss Roberts conversed learnedly, and Mr.
Baxter dozed off into little "cat-naps," waked again with an
apologetic start, and immediately assumed a look of owlish wisdom,
as if to convey the idea that he listened to the best advantage
with his eyes shut. Such a beginning, when they spent but one
evening a week together, did not hold out very brilliant prospects
of enlivening domestic intercourse; but the parties most nearly
concerned appeared to be satisfied, so no one else needed to
complain.
On this particular Wednesday evening, Mr. Baxter was unusually
drowsy. His youngest child, he fretfully explained, had been ill
all the night before, and his own rest had been badly broken.
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