A matter that she would shed a few tears over and then dismiss, he would brood over until he worked himself up into a state of positive wretchedness.
He really could not help himself, it was a certain kink in his nature that made him so, and the 'tenses' were times of misery both to himself and Dot.
Once in the early days of the baby, he had taken up the notion that Dot cared for it far more than she did for him, she was so wrapped up in it, and would spare him so little time from it.
He had grown absolutely jealous of the poor innocent little morsel, and so miserably unhappy, that it had needed a domestic cyclone and manifest neglect of the child before Dot could bring him to a healthy state of mind again.
He loved his little sweet wife with a passionate fervour and devotedness, that only one man in a thousand is capable of.
She was as necessary to him as the breath to his lungs, the blood to his heart. Had it been needful, he would have fought the whole world single-handed for her sake and never felt one of the scars.
But the very strength of his love made it a little cruel sometimes, he demanded almost too much of her and she could not always understand or be patient with it.
And now there was a cloud gathering on the domestic sky, and Dot with astonishing blindness thought it was a new, wonderful sun that was going to cast a warm, beautiful light over everything again.
'Oh, what _will_ Larrie say?' she exclaimed in a fit of eager, childlike pleasure one afternoon when she had sung the 'Jewel Song,' in a way that even Wooster, carping critic as he was, could pronounce none other than perfect.
He looked at her tenderly, he nearly always said '_dear_ little girl' to himself when she was like that.
'I think he will say he could not be prouder of his wife than he is,' he answered. 'When shall you tell him?'
'Oh, not yet,' Dot said. 'Not yet on any account, electric shocks are the salt of life. Imagine his face when I lay the programme before him, "The Jewel Song--Mrs--Lawrence--Armitage."' Her eyes sparkled, she gave one of her happy little laughs. '_How_ I wish the battery was ready!'
Wooster was standing in the window looking absently out.
He had a clear cut face, ascetic would describe it, only women novelists are credited with adoring that word. It was not the face of a musician at all, at least it had not the liquid dreaming eyes, and wide, massive, brow framed in wavy hair that we conjure up generally when we speak of a musician's face. It was monkish rather, the lips were clean shaved and somewhat severe, the hair very short and dark, and the eyes just now merely thoughtful. They were brown in colour, almost black on occasion, and had perhaps even more variety of expression than most people's eyes. In figure he was rather below the average height but he bore himself easily. 'I would rather you spoke to your husband, Mrs Armitage, before the programmes are printed,' he said, unconsciously making chords with his fingers on the window ledge. It had occurred to him that perhaps it was rather a bold step for his pupil to be contemplating a public appearance without her husband's knowledge.