"He is not jealous, at any rate," said Flo, after hearing this part of the letter: "what a blessing it is to have a husband who is not afflicted with a jealous disposition! If Mr. Lobyer were to see me flirting with half-a-dozen people at once, I don't think the spectacle would disturb the serenity of his mind." "You speak as if you wished to make him jealous, Flo." "Well, I don't know about that. Sometimes, perhaps, I really do wish to make him--something. You don't know how provoking those husbands who are not jealous can be. If Mr. Lobyer only watched me as closely as he watches the money-market, he would be a perfect Othello." "But you cannot be displeased with him for devoting himself very much to business, Flo," argued Cecil; "for all the luxury and splendour of this house are the fruits of his commercial successes." "Now you're going to lecture me," exclaimed Florence impatiently. "While I was engaged to Mr. Lobyer, every body seemed to take a delight in abusing him; but now I'm married to him, people preach about him as if he were a saint. Even papa, who was so much against my marriage, never writes to me without some little bit of preachment about my duties as a wife. I don't set up for being a model wife; and if Mr. Lobyer is satisfied with me, I really can't see what right other people have to interfere." After this Florence apologised for her impatience, and embraced her dearest Cecil after her wont. "And now, darling, I want you to come and walk on the terrace with me. It's a delightful morning, more like October than December; and we'll leave all those worsted-working and piano-strumming people in the drawing-room to amuse themselves. Run and put on your warmest shawl. I'll wait for you here." This conversation had taken place in the morning-room, where Cecil had found Mrs. Lobyer alone for once in a way an hour after breakfast. Flo was already dressed for walking in a coquettish black-velvet jacket, trimmed with chinchilla, and a bewitching little hat, adorned with a peacock's breast. Mrs. Lobyer was dressed more carefully than she was wont to attire herself for a walk on the terrace. Her dark-grey poplin dress was looped up on each side, revealing a glimpse of a scarlet-cloth petticoat, a pair of miraculous boots, and the faintest scintillation of grey-silk stockings. Her little gauntlet-shaped gloves were the prettiest that ever came from the hands of a glovemaker, and fitted to perfection. Her hair was tied in a clustering knot, which was the perfection of artistic carelessness, and one little bit of turquoise blue ribbon peeped from amidst the gold-coloured tresses.