Ethel stood there listening.  Minute succeeded to minute.  There was no request for her.  How strong was the contrast between the cool indifference of the man below, and the feverish impatience of that listener above!  A wild impulse came to her to go down, under the pretense of looking for something; then another to go down and out for a walk, so that he might see her.  But in either case pride held her back.  How could she?  Had he not already seen her?  Must he not know perfectly well that she was there?  No; if he did not call for her she could not go.  She could not make advances.

Minute succeeded to minute, and Ethel stood burning with impatience, racked with suspense, a prey to the bitterest feelings.  Still no message.  Why did he delay?  Her heart ached now worse than ever, the choking feeling in her throat returned, and her eyes grew moist.  She steadied herself by holding to the door.  Her fingers grew white at the tightness of her grasp; eyes and ears were strained in their intent watchfulness over the room below.

Of course the caller below was in a perfect state of ignorance about all this.  He had not the remotest idea of that one who now stood so near.  He came as a martyr.  He came to make a call.  It was a thing he detested.  It bored him.  To a man like him the one thing to be avoided on earth was a bore.  To be bored was to his mind the uttermost depth of misfortune.  This he had voluntarily accepted.  He was being bored, and bored to death.

Certainly no man ever accepted a calamity more gracefully than Hawbury.  He was charming, affable, easy, chatty.  Of course he was known to Lady Dalrymple.  The Dowager could make herself as agreeable as any lady living, except young and beautiful ones.  The conversation, therefore, was easy and flowing.  Hawbury excelled in this.

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?