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 bargains with traders of doubtful solvency, or hazardous investments in stocks, as the case might be; the gentleman farmer ruminating upon the chances of a good harvest, or the probable value of his Scotch short-horns.

Mr. Lister had preferred lounging about the farm with a cigar in his mouth to attendance at church upon this particular Sunday evening.  He had finished his customary round of inspection by this time, and was sitting by one of the open windows of the drawing-room, with his body in one luxurious chair, and his legs extended upon another, deep in the study of the Gardener’s Chronicle, which he flung aside upon the appearance of his family.

“Well, Toddlekins,” he cried to the little girl, “I hope you were very attentive to the sermon; listened for two, and made up for your lazy dad.  That’s a vicarious kind of devotion that ought to be permitted occasionally to a hard-working fellow like me.—­I’m glad you’ve come back to give us some tea, Belle.  Don’t go upstairs; let Susan carry up your bonnet and shawl.  It’s nearly nine o’clock.  Toddlekins wants her tea before she goes to bed.”

“Lucy has had her tea in the nursery,” said Mrs. Lister, as she took her seat before the cups and saucers.

“But she will have some more with papa,” replied Martin, who had an amiable knack of spoiling his children.  There were only two—­this bright fair-haired Lucy, aged nine, and a sturdy boy of seven.

They sipped their tea, and talked a little about who had been at church and who had not been, and the room was filled with that atmosphere of dulness which seems to prevail in such households upon a summer Sunday evening; a kind of palpable emptiness which sets a man speculating how many years he may have to live, and how many such Sundays he may have to spend.  He is apt to end by wondering a little whether life is really worth the trouble it costs, when almost the best thing that can come of it is a condition of comfortable torpor like this.