I went into the dining-room first, postponing the pleasure of seeing how, upstairs, the lady of the barouche would, on my arrival, point the moral of my sweet solicitude.

No one took such an interest as herself in his doing only what was good for him, and she was always on the spot to see that he did it.

She made appointments with him to discuss the best means of economising his time and protecting his privacy.

She further made his health her special business, and had so much sympathy with my own zeal for it that she was the author of pleasing fictions on the subject of what my devotion had led me to give up.

I gave up nothing (I don't count Mr.Pinhorn) because I had nothing, and all I had as yet achieved was to find myself also in the menagerie.