ent; then,
entering a field, threw himself down under the hedge, and fell asleep.

He was awakened by a whirr. A covey of partridges, with wings glistening
in the sun, were straggling out across the adjoining field of mustard.
They soon settled in the old-maidish way of partridges, and began to call
upon each other.

Some cattle had approached him in his sleep, and a beautiful bay cow,
with her head turned sideways, was snuffing at him gently, exhaling her
peculiar sweetness. She was as fine in legs and coat as any race-horse.
She dribbled at the corners of her black, moist lips; her eye was soft
and cynical. Breathing the vague sweetness of the mustard-field, rubbing
dry grasp-stalks in his fingers, Shelton had a moment's happiness--the
happiness of sun and sky, of the eternal quiet, and untold movements of
the fields. Why could not human beings let their troubles be as this cow
left the flies that clung about her eyes? He dozed again, and woke up
with a laugh, for this was what he dreamed:

He fancied he was in a room, at once the hall and drawing-room of some
country house. In the centre of this room a lady stood, who was looking
in a hand-glass at her face. Beyond a door or window could be seen a
garden with a row of statues, and through this door people passed without
apparent object.

Suddenly Shelton saw his mother advancing to the lady with the
hand-glass, whom now he recognised as Mrs. Foliot. But, as he looked,
his mother changed to Mrs. Dennant, and began speaking in a voice that
was a sort of abstract of refinement. "Je fais de la philosophic," it
said; "I take the individual for what she's worth. I do not condemn;
above all, one must have spirit!" The lady with the mirror continued
looking in the glass; and, though he could not see her face, he could see
its image-pale, with greenish eyes, and a smile like scorn itself. Then,
by a swift transition, he was walking in the garden talking to Mrs.
Dennant.

It was from this talk that he awoke with laughter. "But," she had been
saying, "Dick, I've always been accustomed to believe what I was told.
It was so unkind of her to scorn me just because I happen to be
second-hand." And her voice awakened Shelton's pity; it was like a
frightened child's. "I don't know what I shall do if I have to form
opinions for myself. I was n't brought up to it. I 've always had them
nice and secondhand. How am I to go to work? One must believe what
other peop