little."

"And why is that? Surely it must be good for one to be surrounded by
inspiring things?"

"I am not sure that beauty does inspire anything except content," he
answered, smiling. "I call this garden of yours, for instance, a most
vicious place, a perfect lotus-eater's Paradise. Positively, I feel the
energy slipping out of my bones as I sit here."

"Then you shall be chained to that seat," she threatened. "You will not
be able to go to Manchester and make trouble, and my uncle will be able
to sleep at nights."

"I feel that everything in life is slipping away from me," he protested.
"I ought to be thinking over what lam going to say to your country
people, and instead of that I am wondering whether there is anything
more beautiful in the world than the blue haze over your meadows."

She laughed, and moved her parasol a little so that she could see him
better.

"You know," she said, "my uncle declares that if only you could be
taught to imbibe a little more of the real philosophy of living, you
would become quite a desirable person."

"And what is the real philosophy of living?"

"Just now, with him, it is the laissez faire, the non-interference with
the essential forces of life, especially the forces that concern other