Joe watched with glazed hopeless eyes. The horses were almost like his own body to him. He felt he was done for now. Luckily he was engaged to a woman as old as himself, and therefore her father, who was steward of a neighbouring estate, would provide him with a job. He would marry and go into harness. His life was over, he would be a subject animal now. He turned uneasily aside, the retreating steps of the horses echoing in his ears. Then, with foolish restlessness, he reached for the scraps of bacon-rind from the plates, and making a faint whistling sound, flung them to the terrier that lay against the fender. He watched the dog swallow them, and waited till the creature looked into his eyes. Then a faint grin came on his face, and in a high, foolish voice he said: “You won’t get much more bacon, shall you, you little b——?” The dog faintly and dismally wagged its tail, then lowered his haunches, circled round, and lay down again. There was another helpless silence at the table. Joe sprawled uneasily in his seat, not willing to go till the family conclave was dissolved. Fred Henry, the second brother, was erect, clean-limbed, alert. He had watched the passing of the horses with more _sang-froid_. If he was an animal, like Joe, he was an animal which controls, not one which is controlled. He was master of any horse, and he carried himself with a well-tempered air of mastery. But he was not master of the situations of life. He pushed his coarse brown moustache upwards, off his lip, and glanced irritably at his sister, who sat impassive and inscrutable. “You’ll go and stop with Lucy for a bit, shan’t you?” he asked. The girl did not answer. “I don’t see what else you can do,” persisted Fred Henry. “Go as a skivvy,” Joe interpolated laconically. The girl did not move a muscle. “If I was her, I should go in for training for a nurse,” said Malcolm, the youngest of them all. He was the baby of the family, a young man of twenty-two, with a fresh, jaunty _museau_. But Mabel did not take any notice of him. They had talked at her and round her for so many years, that she hardly heard them at all. The marble clock on the mantel-piece softly chimed the half-hour, the dog rose uneasily from the hearthrug and looked at the party at the breakfast table. But still they sat on in ineffectual conclave. “Oh, all right,” said Joe suddenly, _à propos_ of nothing. “I’ll get a move on.” He pushed back his chair, straddled his knees with a downward jerk, to get them free, in horsy fashion, and went to the fire. Still he did not go out of the room; he was curious to know what the others would do or say. He began to charge his pipe, looking down at the dog and saying, in a high, affected voice: “Going wi’ me? Going wi’ me are ter? Tha’rt goin’ further than tha counts on just now, dost hear?”