tense of looking for something; then another to go down and out for
a walk, so that he might see her. But in either case pride held her
back. How could she? Had he not already seen her? Must he not know
perfectly well that she was there? No; if he did not call for her she
could not go. She could not make advances.

Minute succeeded to minute, and Ethel stood burning with impatience,
racked with suspense, a prey to the bitterest feelings. Still no
message. Why did he delay? Her heart ached now worse than ever, the
choking feeling in her throat returned, and her eyes grew moist. She
steadied herself by holding to the door. Her fingers grew white at the
tightness of her grasp; eyes and ears were strained in their intent
watchfulness over the room below.

Of course the caller below was in a perfect state of ignorance about
all this. He had not the remotest idea of that one who now stood so
near. He came as a martyr. He came to make a call. It was a thing he
detested. It bored him. To a man like him the one thing to be avoided
on earth was a bore. To be bored was to his mind the uttermost depth
of misfortune. This he had voluntarily accepted. He was being bored,
and bored to death.

Certainly no man ever accepted a calamity more gracefully than
Hawbury. He was charming, affable, easy, chatty. Of course he was
known to Lady Dalrymple. The Dowager could make herself as agreeable
as any lady living, except young and beautiful ones. The conversation,
therefore, was easy and flowing. Hawbury excelled in this.

Now there are several variations in the great art of expression, and
each of these is a minor art by itself. Among these may be enumerated:

First, of course, the art of novel-writing.

Second, the art of writing editorials.

Third, the art of writing paragraphs.

After these come all the arts of oratory, letter-writing,
essay-writing, and all that sort of thing, among which there is one to
which I wish particularly to call attention, and this is:

The art of small-talk.

Now this art Hawbury had to an extraordinary degree of perfection. He
knew how to beat out the faintest shred of an idea into an illimitable
surface of small-talk. He never took refuge in the weather. He left
that to bunglers and beginners. His resources were of a different
character, and were so skillfully managed that he never failed to
leave a very agreeable impression. Small-talk! Why, I've been in
situations sometimes where I would have gi