mained for dignity, and more than enough for comfort: and in a county where people had large families, Emily was an heiress of considerable pretension.
His lady was one of those thousand-and-one women who wore dark silk dresses and lace caps—who, after a fashion of their own, have made most exemplary wives; that is to say, they took to duties instead of accomplishments, and gave up music when they married—who spent the mornings in the housekeepers room, and the evenings at the tea-table, waiting for the guests who came not—who rose after the first glass of wine—whose bills and calls were paid punctually, and whose dinners were a credit to them. In addition to this, she always knitted Mr. A.'s worsted stockings with her own hands, was good-natured, had a whole book of receipts, and loved her husband and niece as parts of herself.
Few families practised more punctuality and propriety, and perhaps in few could more happiness, or rather content, be found. Occasionally, Mr. Arundel's temper might be ruffled by pheasants and poachers, and his wife's by some ill-dressed dish; but then there were the quarter sessions to talk of, and other and faultless
