Mrs. Bushby did not trouble herself to notice these ribald remarks. She regarded her distinguished brother-in-law with placid contempt. It is not alone my Lord Dundreary who sets down every man who differs from him as a lunatic. In Aunt Jane's opinion the royal academician was an eccentric creature, who made more money than one could suppose by painting scantily-draped young women, and who in the affairs of every-day life was little better than a fool. She suffered him to rail as he pleased against the frivolity of modern young ladies; and she revenged herself upon his cheque-book. The little people in Russell Square profited considerably by Miss Crawford's wedding; for Mrs. Bushby's calculations as to material for dresses that were to be made by the two estimable young persons were apt to err on the side of liberality; and if a few yards of silk or velvet were left, dear extravagant Flo was always the first to propose that the fabric should be converted into a frock for Fanny, or a pelisse for Lilly, or a tunic for Johnny, as the case might be. And was the painter's daughter of so shallow and frivolous a nature as to find perfect happiness in days spent in milliners' show-rooms and before the counters of haberdashers? Was the society of Thomas Lobyer, who hung about the Fountains after his own loutish fashion at all hours of the day and evening, all-sufficient to satisfy the desires of her heart and mind? She seemed happy, for a young lady who laughs a great deal, and talks almost unceasingly, and pirouettes round the room on the points of her pretty little feet, with the smallest possible provocation, is generally supposed to enjoy a plethora of happiness. But that very close observer--who, like the typical policeman, is never in the way when he is wanted--might have perceived a shade of fever and hurry in Miss Crawford's gaiety which rarely goes along with unalloyed content. Perfect happiness is apt to be very quiet. There is a solemn hush, a delicious repose in real joy, a delight too deep for words: and such delight had no place in the heart of Florence Crawford. She was pleased with her fine clothes; she was pleased with her jewels. She had more diamond hearts and crosses and crescents than she could count. She had an eagle newly alighted on a monster carbuncle, that looked like a block of translucent red-currant jelly. She had been satiated with suites of turquoise and opal, and had learned to discover a "feather" in a fifty-guinea emerald ring. She was pleased with the carriages which Mr. Lobyer showed her at the makers' in Long Acre, and the horses that had been selected at one of Tattersall's crack sales, for her especial benefit. She was pleased with her visits to the upholsterer who was making new furniture for her rooms at Pevenshall, and who submitted his designs for her approval with as deferential an air as if she had been affianced to a prince of the blood-royal.