Disregard for mortuary convention was carried to further lengths next day; during the absence of the family at the funeral ceremony the remaining survivors of the speckled Sussex were massacred. The marauder’s line of retreat seemed to have embraced most of the flower beds on the lawn, but the strawberry beds in the lower garden had also suffered. “I shall get the otter hounds to come here at the earliest possible moment,” said Egbert savagely. “On no account! You can’t dream of such a thing!” exclaimed Amanda. “I mean, it wouldn’t do, so soon after a funeral in the house.” “It’s a case of necessity,” said Egbert; “once an otter takes to that sort of thing it won’t stop.” “Perhaps it will go elsewhere now there are no more fowls left,” suggested Amanda. “One would think you wanted to shield the beast,” said Egbert. “There’s been so little water in the stream lately,” objected Amanda; “it seems hardly sporting to hunt an animal when it has so little chance of taking refuge anywhere.” “Good gracious!” fumed Egbert, “I’m not thinking about sport. I want to have the animal killed as soon as possible.” Even Amanda’s opposition weakened when, during church time on the following Sunday, the otter made its way into the house, raided half a salmon from the larder and worried it into scaly fragments on the Persian rug in Egbert’s studio. “We shall have it hiding under our beds and biting pieces out of our feet before long,” said Egbert, and from what Amanda knew of this particular otter she felt that the possibility was not a remote one. On the evening preceding the day fixed for the hunt Amanda spent a solitary hour walking by the banks of the stream, making what she imagined to be hound noises. It was charitably supposed by those who overheard her performance, that she was practising for farmyard imitations at the forth-coming village entertainment. It was her friend and neighbour, Aurora Burret, who brought her news of the day’s sport. “Pity you weren’t out; we had quite a good day. We found at once, in the pool just below your garden.” “Did you—kill?” asked Amanda. “Rather. A fine she-otter. Your husband got rather badly bitten in trying to ‘tail it.’ Poor beast, I felt quite sorry for it, it had such a human look in its eyes when it was killed. You’ll call me silly, but do you know who the look reminded me of? My dear woman, what is the matter?”