The bride and bridegroom spent the honeymoon at Ashdale Park, and Lucy was much edified by the grandeur of the place. The park was extensive, the pleasure-grounds immense, the gardens perfect. She had nothing to do but to enjoy all she saw. She went round the pictures several times, till she thought there was no pleasure in making her neck ache with looking up, and her eyes ache with peering through Claude Lorraine glasses; she repeatedly walked about the gardens, but she dreaded the sight of the gardener; he used such hard names, and he was such a gentleman, that she scarcely ventured to ask him the name of a flower, much less to suggest any fancy of her own. The house was completely _montée_. The _maître d’hôtel_ sent in the bill of fare, but she could never have presumed to propose any alteration in the repast. She had heard that Ashdale Park was famous for bantams, and she one day expressed a wish to see them. Lord Montreville ordered the pony phaeton to drive her to the poultry establishment. “Oh, let us walk, dear Lord Montreville; I had much rather walk.” “It has been just raining, my dear Lucy, and your shoes are thin.” “But I can put on thick ones in a moment.” “I hate to see a woman’s foot look like a man’s. Nothing so ugly as great coarse shoes upon a pretty woman’s little foot.” “Oh! but nobody will see me.” “Yes, I shall see you,” answered Lord Montreville, and Lucy felt frightened lest he should think she could have meant he was nobody. So the pony phaeton was ordered. In about three quarters of an hour it appeared, and a groom on another beautiful little long-tailed pony to follow, and Lucy’s wadded cloaks, and Lord Montreville’s fur cloak, and the boa, and the parasol, and the umbrella, and the reticule, &c. were all duly packed and arranged, and they entered the carriage, and drove about a mile to the end of the park. Having summoned the poultryman, Lady Montreville was introduced to all the different yards and coops, the winter roosting-place, and the summer roosting-place, and the coops for early chickens, and the places for fatting; and Lucy soon felt that the poulterer, who did the honours of the establishment, was much more the master of the whole concern than she could ever be; so, having bestowed the requisite portion of approbation and admiration, she was departing without any particular desire to revisit the scene, when a young gosling waddled past her feet. She stooped to pick it up—it escaped her—she ran after it—she succeeded in catching it—she brought the pretty little yellow thing back to Lord Montreville in great delight at having secured it, and fully expecting that he would sympathize in her feelings. “Look at the pretty creature!—Is it not a love?—dear little thing!” “My dear Lady Montreville, it will dirty you all over—its feathers are coming off: I beg, I entreat, you will put it down!” added Lord Montreville in a tone of annoyance.