"Are you playing two games, Gerard?" continued Frances, giving him a keen glance. In truth she would like to know. "I am not playing at one yet," answered the young man. "It would not do, you know." "What would not do? As if any one could make anything of your talk when you go in for obscurity!" she added, with a light laugh, as she gave a toss to her pretty hat. "Were I to attempt to talk less obscurely, I should soon be set down; therefore I never--we must conclude--shall do it," spoke he, in pained and strangely earnest tones. And with that Mr. Hope walked forward to join the others, leaving a line of pain on the fair open brow of Lady Frances Chenevix. CHAPTER II. THE SHOT. They had brought down the pheasants: never had a first of October afforded better spoil: and they had lingered long at the sport, for evening was drawing on. Robert Dalrymple, the head of the party and owner of Moat Grange--a desolate grange enough, to look at, with the remains of a moat around it, long since filled in--aimed at the last bird he meant to hit that day, and missed it. He handed his gun to his gamekeeper. "Shall I load again, sir?" "No; we have done enough for one day, Hardy: and it is getting late. Come, Robert. Oscar, are you satisfied?" "He must be greedy if he is not," broke in the hearty voice of the Honourable and Reverend Thomas Cleveland, the Rector of Netherleigh, who had joined the shooting-party, and who was related to Lady Acorn, though very distantly: for, some twenty years ago, the Earldom of Cleveland had lapsed to a distant branch. "You will come home and dine with us, Cleveland?" spoke Mr. Dalrymple, as they turned their faces towards the Grange. "What, in this trim? Mrs. Dalrymple would say I made myself free and easy." "Nonsense! You know we don't stand upon ceremony. James will give your boots a brush. And, if you insist on being smart, I will lend you a coat." "You have lent me one before now. Thank you. Then I don't care if I do," concluded the Rector. He had not time to go home and change his things. The Rectory and the Grange stood a good mile apart from each other, the village lying between them--and the dinner-hour was at hand. For the hours of that period were not the fashionable ones of these, when people dine at eight o'clock. Five o'clock was thought to be the proper hour then, or six at the latest, especially with unceremonious country people. As to parsons, they wore clothes cut as other people's were cut, only that the coats were generally black. "Look out, Robert," cried Mr. Cleveland to young Dalrymple. "Stand away." And, turning round, the Rector fired his gun in the air. "What is that for?" demanded Oscar Dalrymple, a relative of the family, who was staying for a day or two at the Grange.