"Regret teaching my husband to seek rank and title."
Su Ziji released the hand he had been holding and gently stroked her hair instead. With a sigh, he said, "Then I have a poem for you. Would you like to hear it?"
As he spoke, he recited it, his voice clear and bright.
"I built my hut amid the human realm, yet no clamor of carts and horses disturbed it. You ask how this could be so? When the heart was distant, the place itself grew secluded. I plucked chrysanthemums beneath the eastern hedge, and leisurely glimpsed the southern mountains. The mountain air was lovely at dusk; flocks of birds flew home together. Here lay a true meaning, yet when I wished to discern it, words had already slipped away."
Ye Buhui's eyes immediately lit up at the poem. As the daughter of a bookstore owner, if nothing else, she had read many books. This poem was exceedingly fine. Though she had long known her husband's talent, it still filled her with delight.
That alone would have been enough, but her husband's wise yet sorrow-laden gaze made her lower her head shyly. Only after a long while did she seem to wake from a dream, replying in a voice as faint as a mosquito's buzz, "It is a good poem. I like it."
"But that is a privilege reserved for the grandsons of governors-general, grand commandants, and dukes, or the sons of prefects."
Seeing the confusion in her eyes, Su Ziji did not explain. "Do you still remember all the hardships we encountered when we first met?"
"Plucking chrysanthemums beneath the eastern hedge and leisurely glimpsing the southern mountains—that is certainly fine. But let me ask you this: how would we deal with thugs, tax runners, county clerks, officials' sons,