"Rien n'est sacré pour un sapeur--bébé. Non, rien n'est sacré pour un sapeur."
It was certainly a great deal to Haggard's credit that he remained tranquilly at The Warren for the space of three whole weeks. It was the London season--just that time of year when flat-racing was at its height; and at all the great meetings the Pandemonium set was conspicuous. It might have been that he really liked his wife's society, and that he found that the only way of getting her all to himself was, as he was pleased to call it, to bury himself alive at King's Warren. It has been said before that Haggard objected to the _rôle_ of Beauty's Husband, but he had found that in town it was willy-nilly forced upon him. He felt it trying that the instant Georgie showed herself in their box at the play, the glasses of all the somebodies and half the nobodies would be immediately levelled at her. Haggard was by no means a jealous man. He was one of those who thoroughly enjoy being a "popper-in" at the boxes of friends where beauty sits triumphant. He had admired and rather laughed at the stoical philosophy of some of his married friends, who were accustomed to calmly go off to enjoy their brandies and sodas, under such circumstances, leaving their wives the centre of a little circle of admirers--a circle of which he himself was often a prominent ornament. But, though not a jealous man, he considered it wise, when at the play, to be particularly attentive to Georgie. Haggard believed in sheep dogs to a certain extent, but he believed still more in the actual presence of the shepherd himself. But his experiences of the last London season as a married man had convinced him that the life of Corydon, particularly at the play, was not an existence of unalloyed bliss. To Mrs. Charmington and her smart set, Haggard's devotion to his wife was particularly touching: in vain would they beckon him, or point to a vacant seat at their sides, with their fans; like Love's Sentinel, sweet was the watch he kept, but, to tell the truth, it bored him horribly.
It is undoubtedly pleasing to a man to find that his choice is appreciated by all his friends, but it is rather trying to a married man when he leaves his wife, even for a few moments, at a garden party, or the inclosure of a race-course, on his return to always find her, by no fault of her own, be it remembered, surrounded by a rapidly-increasing throng of enthusiastic admirers. So Haggard resigned himself, with considerable philosophy, to the innocent delights of country life and the dulness of King's Warren.