Poor Lady Archfield, it was trying for her that her husband should be nearly as blind as his son.  The young husband was wonderfully tender, indulgent, and patient with the little creature, but it would not be easy to say whether the affection were not a good deal like that for his dog or his horse, as something absolutely his own, with which no one else had a right to interfere.  It was a relief to the family that she always wanted to be out of doors with him whenever the weather permitted, nay, often when it was far from suitable to so fragile a being; but if she came home aching and crying ever so much with chill or fatigue, even if she had to keep her bed afterwards, she was equally determined to rush out as soon as she was up again, and as angry as ever at remonstrance.

Charles was gone to try a horse; and as the remains of the effects of her last imprudence had prevented her accompanying him, the arrival of the guests had been a welcome diversion to the monotony of the morning.

He was, however, at home again by the time the dinner-bell summoned the younger ladies from the inspection of the trinkets and the gentlemen from the live stock, all to sit round the heavy oaken table draped with the whitest of napery, spun by Lady Archfield in her maiden days, and loaded with substantial joints, succeeded by delicacies manufactured by herself and Lucy.

As to the horse, Charles was fairly satisfied, but ’that fellow, young Oakshott, had been after him, and had the refusal.’

“Don’t you be outbid, Mr. Archfield,” exclaimed the wife.  “What is the matter of a few guineas to us?”

“Little fear,” replied Charles.  “The old Major is scarcely like to pay down twenty gold caroluses, but if he should, the bay is his.”

“Oh, but why not offer thirty?” she cried.

Charles laughed.  “That would be a scurvy trick, sweetheart, and if Peregrine be a crooked stick, we need not be crooked too.”

“I was about to ask,” said the Doctor, “whether you had heard aught of that same young gentleman.”

“I have seen him where I never desire to see him again,” said Sir Philip, “riding as though he would be the death of the poor hounds.”

“Nick Huntsman swears that he bewitches them,” said Charles, “for they always lose the scent when he is in the field, but I believe ’tis the wry looks of him that throw them all out.”

“And I say,” cried the inconsistent bride, “that ’tis all jealousy that puts the gentlemen beside themselves, because none of them can dance, nor make a bow, nor hand a cup of chocolate, nor open a gate on horseback like him.”

“What does a man on horseback want with opening gates?” exclaimed Charles.

“That’s your manners, sir,” said young Madam with a laugh.  “What’s the poor lady to do while her cavalier flies over and leaves her in the lurch?”

Her husband did not like the general laugh, and muttered, “You know what I mean well enough.”