She had been married to him a year--quite long enough to be disenchanted.

That handsome face might fascinate other foolish moths; it had lost its power to dazzle her long, long ago.

Perhaps the disenchantment was mutual; for the pretty, rose-cheeked, starry-eyed girl who had captivated his idle fancy had become a dream of the past, and his wife was a pale, sickly, peevish invalid, with frowsy hair and slipshod feet.
The clattering of the cups and saucers awoke the baby, who began squalling dismally; and the baby's cries awoke the baby's mamma.

Rose got up, feeling cramped and unrefreshed, and came out into the parlour with the infant in her arms.

Her husband turned from a dreary contemplation of the sun trying to force its way through a dull, yellow fog, and dropped the curtain.
"Good-morning, my dear," said Mr.Stanford, pouring out a cup of tea.
"How are you to-day?
Can't you make that disagreeable youngster hold his confounded tongue ?" "What time did you get home last night ?" demanded Mrs.Stanford, with flashing eyes.
"It wasn't last night, my dear," replied Mr.Stanford, serenely, buttering his roll; "it was sometime this morning, I believe." "And of course you were drunk as usual!" "My love, pray don't speak so loudly; they'll hear you down stairs," remonstrated the gentleman.