oom, 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
people do; not that I think much of other people, but, you do know what
it is--one feels so much more comfortable," and her skirts rustled.
"But, Dick, whatever happens"--her voice entreated--"do let Antonia get
her judgments secondhand. Never mind for me--if I must form opinions for
myself, I must--but don't let her; any old opinions so long as they are
old. It 's dreadful to have to think out new ones for oneself." And he
awoke. His dream had had in it the element called Art, for, in its gross
absurdity, Mrs. Dennant had said things that showed her soul more fully
than anything she would have said in life.

"No," said a voice quite close, behind the hedge, "not many Frenchmen,
thank the Lord! A few coveys of Hungarians over from the Duke's. Sir
James, some pie?"

Shelton raised himself with drowsy curiosity--still half asleep--and
applied his face to a gap in the high, thick osiers of the hedge. Four
men were seated on camp-stools round a folding-table, on which was a pie
and other things to eat. A game-cart, well-adorned with birds and ha