They seem
to think that a man is made of soft, kindergarten clay, and all a wife
has to do is to sit down and mould him as she pleases. Well, some men
may be like that, but Peter isn't. The family never really have
forgiven me for calling their darling "Charles Edward" Peter. I
perfectly loathe that long-winded Walter-Scotty name, and I don't care
how many grandfathers it's descended from. I'm sorry, of course, if it
hurts their feelings, but as long as _I_ don't object to their calling
him what THEY like, I don't see why they mind. And as for my managing
Peter, they know perfectly well that, though he's a darling, he's just
mulishly obstinate. He's had his own way ever since he was born; the
whole family simply adore him. His mother has always waited on him hand
and foot, though she's sensible enough with the other children. If he
looks sulky she is perfectly miserable. I am really very fond of my
mother-in-law--that is, I am fond of her IN SPOTS. There are times when
she understands how I feel about Peter better than any one else--like
that dreadful spring when he had pneumonia and I was nearly wild. I
know she is dreadfully unselfish and kind, but she WILL think--they all
do--that they know what Peter needs better than I do, and whenever they
see me alone it's to hint that I ought to keep him from smoking too
much and being extravagant, and that I should make him wear his
overcoat and go to bed early and take medicine when he has a cold.
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