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 given the power of writing
like Dickens (if I had it) for perfection in this last art.

But this careless, easy, limpid, smooth, natural, pleasant, and
agreeable flow of chat was nothing but gall and wormwood to the
listener above. She ought to be there. Why was she so slighted? Could
it be possible that he would go away without seeing her?

She was soon to know.