The residence of Sir Andrew Featherstone was called Hovenden Lodge; why it was called a lodge we cannot say. It was a large plain house, situated in a small level park. The hand of improvement had been very busy with it, but the genius of propriety had not presided over the improvements. Several different styles of architecture had been introduced, and to very ill effect; for the very square broad-sided form of the building rendered it unsusceptible of decoration. But Sir Andrew cared nothing about it--he left all those matters to the ladies, who gave directions according to their own taste or lack of taste; and all the return which he made for their architectural diligence and their skilful improvements was to laugh at what he called their absurdities. The usual order was quite reversed at Hovenden Lodge; for while Lady Featherstone and her two daughters, Lucy and Isabella, were drawing plans, or marching about the park, and pointing out to the architect the improvements which they thought desirable, Sir Andrew was standing by the kitchen fire and lecturing the cook, or translating aloud recipes from his favorite French cookery-book, which was the only book that he had ever purchased; and very highly did he value it, fancying that few persons in this kingdom were aware of its existence. He often however had, or we should more properly say, might have had, the mortification of finding that he had been translating from French into English that which had been previously translated from English into French; for whenever his knowing lady reminded him that any recipe was already in the English cookery-books, he would always contend for or discover some delicate variation which gave the French the advantage. He thought, too, that there was a peculiar piquancy in the French terms, and that there was a particular relish in foreign names, which he always took care to utter, but which his obstinately English organs of speech rendered mightily amusing in their utterance. The greatest evil of the archery-meeting in Sir Andrew’s opinion was, that it must be attended only with a cold collation, and that must be in a marquee. It had been discussed repeatedly, but as frequently decided against him, that it was absolutely impossible to have a hot dinner. He did not like it, but he bore it very good-temperedly; and was brimful of jokes, ready to let fly with every arrow. Lady Featherstone, who was never so happy as when she was patronising, was delighted with the thought of the long table under the marquee, and her own self smiling, nodding, and bowing most gracefully to every body: she could undergo a cold dinner every day of her life, for the happiness of thinking that every body said, “What a charming woman is Lady Featherstone!”