Lucy let the gosling go, and followed Lord Montreville to the carriage. When they had remounted, and again arranged the cloaks and shawls, Lord Montreville said— “My dear Lucy, you must remember that now you are a married woman, and my wife: these are little girlish ways that do not sit well upon you. I am sure your own good sense will point out to you that there ought to be something more _posé_ in manner for your present situation.” Lucy acquiesced, and resolved not to catch goslings any more. They lived in the most perfect retirement. Lord Montreville did not mean to enter the world till he had tutored his wife into being precisely the thing he wished. She found the time hang rather heavy on her hands; she read, but she could not read all day; she wrote to her mother and sisters, but she had not much to say, and a bride’s letters are always very dull. No part of the household required her superintendence: she did not work much, for where was the use of working when she had plenty of money, and could buy every thing so much better than she could make it? She always hated torturing a piece of muslin, till the muslin was dirty and the pattern out of fashion. She played and sang a little; but Lord Montreville liked Italian music, and she sang English ballads. She liked long walks; but Lord Montreville always thought she would get tanned if the sun shone, and red if the wind blew, and wet if it had been raining, or was likely to rain. Then there were so many rooms, she never found any thing at the moment she wished for it: when she was at luncheon in the ante-room, she missed her reticule, which was left in the library, where she passed the morning; when she retired to her boudoir after her drive, she found she had left her letters in the saloon, where they breakfasted: in the evening, when they sat in the great drawing-room, she wanted her work, and the work-box was in the library. Lord Montreville rang the bell, and a servant was despatched to bring the work-box. He returned, but the one skein of silk of the right shade was missing, and it ended by her lighting a candle and going to look for it herself. In the morning, after hunting all over the library for the book she was reading, she remembered she had left it the preceding evening in the drawing-room; and she sometimes thought it would be vastly comfortable to live in one snug room, where one had all one’s things about one.