“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?”