'Grandmother is in capital spirits,' said Lady Lesbia. 'She is pleased with the contents of yesterday's _Globe_. Lord Denyer, the son of one of her oldest friends, has been making a great speech at Liverpool in the Conservative interest, and her ladyship thinks we shall have a change of parties before long.' 'A general shuffle of the cards,' said Maulevrier, looking up from his breakfast. 'I'm sure I hope so. I'm no politician, but I like a row.' 'I hope you are a Conservative, Mr. Hammond,' said Lesbia. 'I had hoped you would have known that ever so long ago, Lady Lesbia.' Lesbia blushed at his tone, which was almost a reproach. 'I suppose I ought to have understood from the general tenor of your conversation,' she said; 'but I am terribly stupid about politics. I take so little interest in them. I am always hearing that we are being badly governed--that the men who legislate for us are stupid or wicked; yet the world seems to go on somehow, and we are no worse.' 'It is just the same with sport,' said Maulevrier. 'Every rainy spring we are told that all the young birds have been drowned, or that the grouse-disease has decimated the fathers and mothers, and that we shall have nothing to shoot; but when August comes the birds are there all the same.' 'It is the nature of mankind to complain,' said Hammond. 'Cain and Abel were the first farmers, and you see one of them grumbled.' They were rather lively at breakfast that morning--Maulevrier's last breakfast but one--for he had announced his determination of going to Scotland next day. Other fellows would shoot all the birds if he dawdled any longer. Mary was in deep despondency at the idea of his departure, yet she laughed and talked with the rest. And perhaps Lesbia felt a little moved at the thought of losing Mr. Hammond. Maulevrier would come back to Mary, but John Hammond was hardly likely to return. Their parting would be for ever. 'You needn't sit quite in my pocket, Molly,' said Maulevrier to his younger sister. 'I like to make the most of you, now you are going away,' sighed Mary. 'Oh, dear, how dull we shall all be when you are gone.' 'Not a bit of it! You will have some fox-hunting, perhaps, before the snow is on the hills.' At the very mention of fox-hounds Lady Mary's bright young face crimsoned, and Maulevrier began to laugh in a provoking way, with side-long glances at his younger sister. 'Did you ever hear of Molly's fox-hunting, by-the-by, Hammond?' he asked. Mary tried to put her hand before his lips, but it was useless.