Neither did it suit Emma and Mary, whose hearts palpitated at the prospect of wearing their new wardrobe, and at the effect it was to produce. Vague images of barons, viscounts, earls, marquesses, and even dukes, were floating in their minds, and Mademoiselle had certainly intimated she did not see why if one of her young people had married so brilliantly, the others should not do as well, especially as Mademoiselle Emma played with much more execution than Madame la Marquise, and Mademoiselle Marie had begun learning German. One and all were wofully disappointed when day after day elapsed, and the family party received no addition, unless it might be the clergyman of the parish, Lord Montreville’s solicitor from the county town, once his agent from Lancashire, and once the Delafields. Mrs. Heckfield appeared in perfect caps from Devi’s, in the last new Parisian hat from Carson’s; Emma and Mary in the crispest of white muslins, over the cleanest of white satins. In vain! Neither duke, marquess, earl, viscount, baron, or even baronet, made his appearance. A fortnight had already slipped away,—the time for departure was approaching, when Mrs. Heckfield one day said to her daughter,— “Well, my dear Lucy, I hope when your confinement is over, you will lead a gayer life. I fancied you had your house always full of company. Your letters constantly contained a list of visitors as long as my arm, and I am sure since we have been here, scarcely a soul has crossed your threshold. We have ten times as much society at Rose Hill Lodge.” “Lord Montreville takes too much care of me, and that is the reason we have been so dull. I was afraid Emma and Mary would be disappointed, but whenever I proposed asking people to come, Lord Montreville seemed so afraid of my being ill. I am sure I am well enough, if he would but think so.” “Well, my dear, it is quite right that husbands should be attentive, and I cannot but rejoice that your’s is so peculiarly so. Certainly your father never took half so much care of me. However, I hope the next time we pay you a visit we may find you well, and strong, and able to have your house full, and that I shall have the pleasure of seeing my Lucy the life of a brilliant society.” Lucy sighed, for she had begun to understand Lord Montreville’s dislike to introducing her friends to his friends, and she feared it would be long before she had them all around her again. It was not that their visit gave her all the pleasure she had anticipated from it: she felt that her husband was bored; she was aware that he avoided his own set; she was in an agony if any of her family did any of the things which he thought out of the question; and her sisters, who were not “come out,” although they “dined down,” as they termed it, often made her uncomfortable.