The people who had been refreshing themselves indoors came out, mounted their horses or took to their carriages, cars and carts, while the huntsman led his bunched and trotting hounds down the drive, and the gay cavalcade followed them to the scene of their sport. The soft grey winter sky breathed mild moisture, the tree twigs were purple against it, and seemed already to be giving promise of spring, though the year was only just on the turn. No one there would have exchanged this mood of England's much abused climate for the flowery deceptions of the South, or even for the frosty sparkle of Alpine winters. It was a fine hunting morning, and they were all out to enjoy themselves, in the way that their forbears had enjoyed themselves for generations. CHAPTER XXII ANOTHER AFFAIR Bertie Pemberton stuck close by Beatrix's side as they trotted easily with the crowd up to the wood which was first to be drawn. "They won't find anything here," he said; "they never do. They'll draw Beeching Copse next. Let's go off there, shall we? Lots of others will." In her ignorance and his assurance of what was likely to happen, she allowed herself to follow his lead. The 'lots of others' proved to be those of the runners who were knowing enough to run risks so as to spare themselves, and a few experienced horsemen who shared Bertie's opinion; but there were enough of them to make the move not too conspicuous. Bertie found the occasion he wanted, and made use of it at once. "I say, I know you're a pal of Mollie Walter's," he said. "Is there any chance for me?" Beatrix was rather taken aback by this directness, having anticipated nothing more than veiled enquiries from which she would gain some amusement and interest in divining exactly how far he had gone upon the road which she thought Mollie was also traversing. "Why do you ask me that?" she said, after a slight pause. "Why don't you ask her?" "Well, because I don't want to make a fool of myself. I believe she likes me, but I don't know." "Do you want me to find out for you, then?" she asked, after another pause. "I thought you'd give me a tip," he said. "I know you're a pal of hers. I suppose she talks about things to you." "Of course she talks about things to me." "Yes? Well!" She kept silence. "Is it any good?" he asked again. "How should I know?" asked Beatrix. "You don't suppose she's confided in me that she's dying for love of you!" He turned to look at her. Her pretty face was pink, and a trifle scornful. "Oh, I say!" he exclaimed. "What have I said to put you in a bait?" "Are _you_ in love with her?" asked Beatrix. "I should think you could see that, can't you?" he said, with a slight droop. "I don't know that I've taken particular pains to hide it." "Well then, why don't you tell her so? It's the usual thing to do, isn't it?" He laughed. "Which brings us back to where we were before," he said.