He has given up business now, so he knows he will be usually at hand to guard his beautiful wife from the impudent swells--idle, good-for-nothing specimens of the _genus homo_--to whom morality is an unknown word, and whom he dislikes thoroughly, though he is deferential to their faces. So that on the whole his matrimonial scheme bears a remarkably smooth aspect. “There are one or two other little things on which I should like your opinion before I write my directions.” Hearing which she brightens up at once into an attitude of interest. “Did’nt you say the other day that you preferred a brougham to a clarence?” “A brougham by all means, and it _must_ be by Peters.” “Have you a particular fancy for Peters?” “Yes, yes. He is the only maker who is _chic_. Most of the others turn out heavy lumbering vehicles, with not the style about them that would suit _me_; but then you see, we have always been considered to be so very _difficile_ in our tastes, and the brougham _must_ be green.” “With scarlet under carriage, and body well picked out with broad scarlet lines?” “No, no! Picked out with black,” she says very decidedly, wondering at the awful taste of the man. And there is not a doubt but that his taste _is_ showy, he wears at this identical moment a miniature yacht in full sail, in gold and enamel, as a scarf pin, and a tie of violet satin, with orange stripes; orange is in fact his pet colour, from rhubarb down to the primrose of his gloves. “Yes,” she says, as if reflecting deeply, “the brougham must be green, a _very_ dark green, and picked out with black, and brass mountings.” “A little sombre, don’t you think?” he suggests timidly. “Good heavens, Mr. Stubbs! Do you want me to drive out only on the ninth of November and look as if I was a part of the Lord Mayor’s show?” she asks excitedly, raising her voice and causing him to give a little jump on his chair. It is the first time she has displayed any variation of feeling, and the spice of devilry in her eyes, though it does away with Mary Anderson, heightens her beauty. Usually Trixy Beranger resembles a large waxen doll, with yellow hair and pink and white cheeks. But she recovers her temper directly. It strikes her that this glittering fish may prove a slippery one if she allows the stormy side of her character to burst out before the matrimonial noose is tied. “But, of course, I know you were only joking about the colours for the brougham. I am _sure_ your taste is similar to my own, and that you think nothing can be too quiet to be aristocratic. Mamma rather wants me at four o’clock, have you any idea what the time is?” He glances once more at the leviathan timekeeper he carries, and discovers that he has outstayed his limit fifteen minutes, and that his regular constitutional before feeding time will have to be curtailed. “I, too, have numerous letters to write, so I think I’ll say _au revoir_.”