"She is very good-natured, Lucy; but you mustn't talk nonsense; and you
ought not to listen when your uncle and I are talking. It is very rude."

"But! I can't help hearing you, mamma."

They were at home by this time, within the grounds of a handsome
red-brick house of the early Georgian era, which had been the property of
the Listers ever since it was built. Without, the gardens were a picture
of neatness and order; within, everything was solid and comfortable: the
furniture of a somewhat ponderous and exploded fashion, but handsome
withal, and brightened here and there by some concession to modern
notions of elegance or ease--a dainty little table for books, a luxurious
arm-chair, and so on.

Martin Lister was a gentleman chiefly distinguished by good-nature,
hospitable instincts, and an enthusiastic devotion to agriculture. There
were very few things in common between him and his brother-in-law the
Australian merchant, but they got on very well together for a short time.
Gilbert Fenton pretended to be profoundly interested in the thrilling
question of drainage, deep or superficial, and seemed to enter
unreservedly into every discussion of the latest invention or improvement
in agricultural machinery; and in the mean time he really liked the
repose of the country, and appreciated the varying charms of landscape
and atmosphere with a fervour unfelt by the man who had been born and
reared amidst those pastoral scenes.

The two men smoked their cigars together in a quietly companionable
spirit, strolling about the gardens and farm, dropping out a sentence now
and then, and anon falling into a lazy reverie, each pondering upon his
own affairs--Gilbert meditating transactions with foreign houses, risky