common-sense?" cries Caroline.

You talk, turning your face to the carriage and then turning back to
the horse, to avoid an accident.

"That's right, run against somebody and tip us over, do, you'll be rid
of us. Adolphe, your son is dying of hunger. See how pale he is!"

"But Caroline," puts in the mother-in-law, "he's doing the best he
can."

Nothing annoys you so much as to have your mother-in-law take your
part. She is a hypocrite and is delighted to see you quarreling with
her daughter. Gently and with infinite precaution she throws oil on
the fire.

When you arrive at the barrier, your wife is mute. She says not a
word, she sits with her arms crossed, and will not look at you. You
have neither soul, heart, nor sentiment. No one but you could have
invented such a party of pleasure. If you are unfortunate enough to
remind Caroline that it was she who insisted on the excursion, that
morning, for her children's sake, and in behalf of her milk--she
nurses the baby--you will be overwhelmed by an avalanche of frigid and
stinging reproaches.

You bear it all so as "not to turn the milk of a nursing mother, for
whose sake you must overlook some little things," so your atrocious
mother-in-law whispers in your ear.

All the furies of Orestes are rankling in your heart.