"Very bad. As a young woman, with the conquest of society before you, I most earnestly recommend you to cultivate the listener's art. Talk just enough to develop your companion's powers. If he has a hobby, let him ride it. Be interested, be sympathetic. Do not always agree, but differ only to be convinced, argue only to be converted. Never answer at random, or stifle a yawn. Be a perfect listener, and society is open to you. People will talk of you as the most intelligent girl they know." Mopsy smiled a sickly smile. The agony of those ready-made boots, just a quarter of a size too small, though they had seemed so comfortable in the shoemaker's shop, was increasing momentarily. Here was a hill like the side of a house to be descended. Poor Mopsy felt as if she were balancing herself on the points of her toes. She leant feebly on her umbrella, while the editor of the _Sling_ trudged sturdily by her side admiring the landscape--stopping half-way down the hill to point out the grander features of the scene with his bamboo. Stopping was ever so much worse than going on. It was as if the fires consuming the martyr at the stake had suddenly gone out, and left him with an acuter consciousness of his pain. "Too, too lovely," murmured Mopsy, heartily wishing herself in the King's Road, Chelsea, within hail of an omnibus. She hobbled on somehow, pretending to listen to Mr. FitzJesse's conversation, but feeling that she was momentarily demonstrating her incompetence as a listener, till they came to the farm, where she was just able to totter into the sitting-room, and sink into the nearest chair. "I'm afraid you're tired," said the journalist, a sturdy block of a man, who hardly knew the meaning of fatigue. "I am just a little tired," she faltered hypocritically, "but it has been a lovely walk." They were the last to arrive. The tea things were ready upon a table covered with snowy damask--a substantial tea, including home-made loaves, saffron-coloured cakes, jam, marmalade, and cream. But there was no one in the room except Mrs. Fairfax Torrington, who had enthroned herself in the most comfortable chair, by the side of the cheerful fire. "All the rest of our people have gone straggling off to look at things," she said, "some to the Kieve--and as that is a mile off we shall have ever so long to wait for our tea." "Do you think we need wait very long?" asked Mopsy, whose head was aching from the effects of mid-day champagne; "would it be so very bad if we were to ask for a cup of tea." "I am positively longing for tea," said Mrs. Torrington to FitzJesse, ignoring Mopsy. "Then I'll ask the farm people to brew a special pot for you two," answered the journalist, ringing the bell. "Here comes Mr. Tregonell, game-bag, dogs, and all. This is more friendly than I expected." Leonard strolled across the little quadrangular garden, and came in at the low door, as Mr. FitzJesse spoke.