Not but that he liked the babies, of course.

They were his sons, and he was proud of them.

They should have every advantage that college, special training, and travel could give them.

He quite anticipated what they would be to him--when they really knew anything.

But, of course, _now_, when they could do nothing but cry and wave their absurd little fists, and wobble their heads in so fearsome a manner, as if they simply did not know the meaning of the word backbone--and, for that matter, of course they didn't--why, he could not be expected to be anything but relieved when he had his den to himself again, with a reasonable chance of finding his manuscript as he had left it, and not cut up into a ridiculous string of paper dolls holding hands, as he had once found it, after a visit from a woman with a small girl.
Since Marie had been at the helm, however, he had not been troubled in such a way.