Mrs. Haye was sitting in an armchair in her sitting-room reading a volume of reminiscences that some hunting man had left behind him. Over the fireplace Greylock looked down upon her, while on the writing-table stood Choirboy’s hoof, and there were sporting prints on the walls and an Alken in the corner. But all round were masses of flowers, the air was heavy with the scent of them, for her one extravagance was the hot-house, and Weston understood flowers. This book was interestin’, she had never known that the Bolton had distemper in ’08 and mange in ’09, a most awkward time for them, and the bitch pack had been practically annihilated. Again, it appeared that in ’13, Johnson, who used to hunt hounds so marvellously, had broken an arm, and on the very next day his first whip, the man that the Aston had now, had cracked his thigh. It was an unlucky pack. They had had foot-an’-mouth for two years now. Their own pack down here was gettin’ impossible. Even the Friday country was infested with wire, which of course was young Beamish’s fault; why they hadn’t given the job to someone more experienced no one could tell, but then there was some money that went with it. And she would have to get rid of this groom of hers, Harry; he drank, there was no doubt about it, you had only to smell him. What could one do? Mabel would be here soon, and then they could have a long talk about it all. How dark it was getting. Putting aside the book she rang the bell. Really it was becoming most tiresome, this affair between Herbert and Mrs. Lane. All day long they were at it, she had seen them again yesterday, spooning in the back yard. And the cooking suffered in consequence, that beef had been positively raw three days ago, and there seemed to be nothing but vegetables to eat now, John had been complainin’ about it. His appetite had returned, which was splendid. Where was William? She and Mabel could really have the business out, she knew she would approve. Ah, at last. “William, bring the lamps please.” The old thing had aged lately. They were all gettin’ older; and with Jennings dying like that, it was sad. Pinch retirin’ too, the garden didn’t look the same without him. But he was comfortable at home, and he had earned a rest. There was somethin’ the matter with Annie, perhaps she was getting really crazy, and they ought to send her to a home, but the other morning when she had said to her near the rubbish heap, with such a gleam in her eye, “There will be new leaves soon,” it really was too extraordinary. And what did she mean, it wasn’t even March yet? Why were there always idiots in a village? And there was nothing one could do for them, that was the annoyin’ part about it. Here were the lamps. Appalling it was, the way some people were installing electricity, oil was much more satisfactory. They had always had oil and always would. Electricity was so hard and bright that it was bad for your eyes. “William, Mrs. Palmer will be in for tea to-day.”