tea at the window here, with a little quiet contemplation of the Lane (which comes soothing), between the day, and domestic—”
“Bliss,” suggested Bella, sorrowfully.
“And domestic bliss,” said her father, quite contented to accept the phrase.
Bella kissed him. “And it is in this dark dingy place of captivity, poor dear, that you pass all the hours of your life when you are not at home?”
“Not at home, or not on the road there, or on the road here, my love. Yes. You see that little desk in the corner?”
“In the dark corner, furthest both from the light and from the fireplace? The shabbiest desk of all the desks?”
“Now, does it really strike you in that point of view, my dear?” said her father, surveying it artistically with his head on one side: “that’s mine. That’s called Rumty’s Perch.”