Mr. Troy, watching Miss Pink’s face, saw that it was time to change the subject again. “Did you notice the old village, Lady Lydiard, on your way here?” he asked. “The artists consider it one of the most picturesque places in England.” “I noticed that it was a very dirty village,” Lady Lydiard answered, still bent on making herself disagreeable to Miss Pink. “The artists may say what they please; I see nothing to admire in rotten cottages, and bad drainage, and ignorant people. I suppose the neighborhood has its advantages. It looks dull enough, to my mind.” Isabel had hitherto modestly restricted her exertions to keeping Tommie quiet on her lap. Like Mr. Troy, she occasionally looked at her aunt--and she now made a timid attempt to defend the neighborhood as a duty that she owed to Miss Pink. “Oh, my Lady! don’t say it’s a dull neighborhood,” she pleaded. “There are such pretty walks all round us. And, when you get to the hills, the view is beautiful.” Lady Lydiard’s answer to this was a little masterpiece of good-humored contempt. She patted Isabel’s cheek, and said, “Pooh! Pooh!” “Your Ladyship does not admire the beauties of Nature,” Miss Pink remarked, with a compassionate smile. “As we get older, no doubt our sight begins to fail--” “And we leave off canting about the beauties of Nature,” added Lady Lydiard. “I hate the country. Give me London, and the pleasures of society.” “Come! come! Do the country justice, Lady Lydiard!” put in peace-making Mr. Troy. “There is plenty of society to be found out of London--as good society as the world can show.” “The sort of society,” added Miss Pink, “which is to be found, for example, in this neighborhood. Her Ladyship is evidently not aware that persons of distinction surround us, whichever way we turn. I may instance among others, the Honorable Mr. Hardyman--” Lady Lydiard, in the act of pouring out a second glassful of beer, suddenly set down the jug. “Who is that you’re talking of, Miss Pink?” “I am talking of our neighbor, Lady Lydiard--the Honorable Mr. Hardyman.” “Do you mean Alfred Hardyman--the man who breeds the horses?” “The distinguished gentleman who owns the famous stud-farm,” said Miss Pink, correcting the bluntly-direct form in which Lady Lydiard had put her question. “Is he in the habit of visiting here?” the old lady inquired, with a sudden appearance of anxiety. “Do you know him?” “I had the honor of being introduced to Mr. Hardyman at our last flower show,” Miss Pink replied. “He has not yet favored me with a visit.” Lady Lydiard’s anxiety appeared to be to some extent relieved. “I knew that Hardyman’s farm was in this county,” she said; “but I had no notion that it was in the neighborhood of South Morden. How far away is he--ten or a dozen miles, eh?” “Not more than three miles,” answered Miss Pink. “We consider him quite a near neighbor of ours.”