“And how well my lord looks,” said her father: “the last time I saw him, on your wedding-day you know, Emmy—Lady Fitzhenry, I mean; I beg your ladyship’s pardon,” said he, chuckling, while making her a formal bow in order to pass off for wit, what was in fact the real overflowings of his vanity at her newly-acquired rank:—”on that day, the nineteenth of August, eighteen hundred and twenty-three, I did not like his looks at all. I really was afraid he was not well; but I was told it was _natural agitation_. Now I can’t for my life conceive why a man is to look red and yellow and melancholy on the happiest day of his life. I dare say I did not when I was married to my good woman there—Eh, Mrs. B.?—However, now a wholesome country life, and true domestic English happiness, you know, my Lady Fitzhenry, seem to have made quite another man of him. Emmeline tried again to smile. “It was so good of him,” continued Mr. Benson, “to press us so often to come—but it was impossible sooner; business must be attended to—my old saying, you know;—and then the kindness of sending his horses for us, although I dare say there were plenty to be had at the inn; but still your old father liked very much to be brought to Arlingford Hall in a manner in triumph, driven by two postilions in the handsome old Fitzhenry livery, with the coachman on before to show the way, although I suppose the drivers knew it quite well; but it did not signify, I liked all that, egad I did—and I am not ashamed to own it. And then, thought I, a man so full of pretty attentions to his father-in-law, must make a good husband to my dear girl.” Luckily a kiss of rapture, which he then imprinted on that dear girl’s face, saved the necessity of a reply. By this time, Fitzhenry again made his appearance, apologizing for his absence under the plea of having had some orders to give his coachman. “No apology, my lord,” said the excellent old citizen, seizing his hand, which he heartily shook; “I consider myself at home here; you and Emmeline are one, you know, and it would be hard indeed if I did not feel at home in my daughter’s house.” Fitzhenry endeavoured to say something in return, but failed, and as a retreat from observation, walked to the window. “She is a dear, good little girl, this daughter of mine—is she not, my lord?” continued Mr. Benson, patting Emmeline’s cheek; “and happiness, and your good care of her, have given her such a colour, that I declare I think you must have already taught her to wear rouge, as your fine ladies do.” And Mr. Benson laughed heartily, in gaiety of heart, at his own wit. Alas! poor Emmeline’s colour was the flushed crimson of nervous agitation. Again Fitzhenry had recourse to looking out of the window at the horses and carriages, which luckily had not yet driven off.