On ringing, the callers are shown through a spacious hall with a bronze or two on the marble table, into a drawing-room, elegantly furnished.

There is a short iron grand open with a score carelessly left by the last player, a harp in the corner, half hidden by the curtains, some pieces of Nankin china on the side tables.
Where are the cow-sheds?
Looking out of window a level lawn extends, and on it two young gentlemen are playing tennis, in appropriate costume.

The laboured platitudes that had been prepared about shorthorns and bacon pigs are quite forgotten, and the visitor is just about to ask the question if his guide has not missed the farm-house and called at the squire's, when Mr.X---- comes briskly in, and laughs all apology about intrusion to the winds in his genial manner.

He insists on his friends taking some refreshment, will not take refusal; and such is the power of his vivacity, that they find themselves sipping Madeira and are pressed to come and dine in the evening, before one at least knows exactly where he is.

'Just a homely spread, you know; pot-luck; a bit of fish and a glass of Moet; now _do_ come.' This curious mixture of bluff cordiality, with unexpected snatches of refinement, is Mr.X----'s great charm.