It was not that Mrs. Mowbray was jealous, for Mr. Mowbray was a kind husband, and she knew it was only "his way." She knew that his foible was not to "affect a virtue though he had it not;" but rather to talk, as if he were far less scrupulous than he really was. It was only before the children, or in the hearing of strangers, who did not know "his way," that Mrs. Mowbray felt seriously annoyed. Mr. Otley was of course gratified when his landlord wished to be introduced to his wife; and Mr. Mowbray, with twinkling eyes and gay smile, was soon inquiring into the condition of her pigs, her poultry, and her dairy. "Oh, sir!" she replied, with a tender look at her husband; "you must not ask me about the pigs: Mr. O. says I am a sad fine lady;" (and she looked up for applause;) "but I never could bear the smell of those creatures," (and she looked down with a refined cast of countenance:) "but I am very fond of my dairy; am I not, Mr. O.? and I slip on my clogs every morning, and step into my dairy; don't I, Mr. O.?" "Why, yes, Lizzy, you do that, to be sure; but my mother used to see to the scouring of the milk-pans herself, and would never let father have any peace if there was not always plenty of wood-ashes to clean them with, every morning." "Oh dear, Mr. Otley! don't you go off now about that dear good old soul, your poor dear mother. I am sure Mr. Mowbray will not care to hear what she did twenty years ago." "I had always rather hear about a pretty young woman of the present day, than about an old one, be she ever so good, of the past day," replied Mr. Mowbray, with a bow; and Mrs. Otley simpered, and blushed, and looked down, and removed a curl which fell a little too much over her eyes, and then added, turning to her husband,-- "You know, Mr. Otley, I have promised to be very good about the poultry, and to look after the eggs every morning, as soon as you have made a raised path across the farm-yard to the hen-house. But really, sir, the farm-yard is in such a pickle, that nobody but the labouring men could think of crossing it." "Impossible that Mr. Otley can have so little gallantry as to wish those pretty little feet should step into the farm-yard! He would not be such a Goth!" "That's just what I am always telling Mr. O.," added Mrs. Otley, turning round exultingly; "I am always telling him he is a Goth and a Vandal; and then he says he does not know who the Goths and the Vandals are; and then I laugh, and tell him he is more of a Goth and a Vandal than ever." "Ah, Lizzy! you must not mind everything his honour says; he is pleased to joke sometimes. But he knows well enough that a farmer has need of his head, and both his hands too, and that a farmer's wife should be a stirring body: he knows well enough they are the sort who pay their rent to the day, and keep their land in good condition."