“I wonder why men are so keen on killing things?” said Aurea. “I believe we inherit it from our ancestors, who had to kill wild creatures or starve. I must say I like shooting.” “Oh, do you!”--a blank pause--“the only sport I can imagine any pleasure in, is hunting.” “Do you hunt?” “No; I only wish I did; but Aunt Bella thinks it so improper for a woman to follow the hounds, and father could not escort me.” “But parsons do hunt.” “They did; a vicar of Ottinge actually kept hounds. Father says he only left a dozen dusty books in the library, but a hundred dozen of sound wine in the cellar.” “Yes, those were the good old days!” “I’m not so sure that they were superior to our own times. What do you say?” “That I hope you will always have a good time, Miss Morven.” Miss Morven coloured and bit her lip, but resumed-- “If I only might hunt, I would be bound to have a good time.” “Is your horse a clever jumper?” “No; he either blunders on his head, or sits down.” “Doesn’t sound very promising!” and they both laughed. “Anyway, it’s a rotten, bad country,” said Wynyard, with a contemptuous wave of his hand; “the uplands are full of rabbit holes, and as for the lowlands--you’d want a boat! You should see Leicestershire--big fields and sound turf.” “Yes; but I’m afraid I can’t hunt in Leicestershire from Ottinge,” she answered, with a smile; “and I have some hopes of sport this winter. Mrs. Waring, who is tremendously keen, wants me to go out with her.” “On a pillion?” “No; her brother has a capital horse, not up to his weight, that would just carry me. He is so anxious that I should try it; it jumps beautifully.” “And what does Miss Parrett say?” “I think Mrs. Waring may talk her over, and Mr. Woolcock promises to look after me.” This information roused Wynyard’s ire, his face hardened, and his tone was dry as he said-- “Woolcock is too heavy to hunt, except pounding along the road. He must weigh seventeen stone!” “Very likely; but he is going to do a cure before the season opens.” “Why not a couple of hours with the garden roller, and save the donkey?” Miss Morven took no notice of this impudent suggestion--merely flicked her habit with her hunting crop, and he continued-- “Westmere is a fine old place.” “Yes, isn’t it? The hall and galleries are real Tudor, and the park is lovely.” “How would you like to live there?” “I?” and as she turned to him her air was lofty. “What a--a--an extraordinary question!” “Yes,” he replied, with hasty penitence; “please forgive me, it was more than extraordinary, it was impertinent.” “By the way (it was, after all, the girl who broke the ice), I must ask you to excuse me for my inquisitive question the other day in the garden.”