“Hounds must have blood, or they won’t hunt. These deer wouldn’t exist if it wasn’t for the huntin’. They do a lot of mischief, the artful dodgers. And they lead a glorious life for many years, with a sporting finish. For myself, I ask nothing better.” “Have you been hunted?” “Oh—ho! You ask my lady that? She ran me down in the open, broke me up, b’ Jove!” He made a hunting breakfast—fish, grilled kidneys, ham of his own curing—solemnly commended to visitors—and a top dressing of marmalade. “Tell me what a man eats for breakfast,” he would say, “and I’ll tell you what he is.” After breakfast, the Squire was busy with Bonsor in his own room. Lionel burned to tell his tale to Fishpingle, to read his face, to set about planning a sly campaign against the Squire. Joyce stood high in the old fellow’s esteem. After a night’s rest and half an hour’s snug thinking in bed, Lionel came to the conclusion that his lady-love was irresistible. Fishpingle would share and fortify this opinion. Together they would leap to the assault. If a true lover does not entertain such high faith in the beloved, is he worth a pinch of salt? And when she is his, when that tender assurance has percolated to his marrow, with what enhanced value he regards the priceless possession. We have heard a collector “crab” a Kang He blue-and-white bottle as he bartered with a dealer, and, next day, rave about it when it stood in his cabinet. Lionel had never “crabbed” Joyce, but he had described her to friends as a “ripper,” a “real good sort,” and “bang out of the top drawer.” Now, in a jiffey, she became Euphrosyne. He intended to ransack the poets for satisfying epithets. With any encouragement, he might have essayed a—sonnet. The metrical difficulties would not have daunted him. In this exalted mood, he sped, hot-foot, to Fishpingle’s room. Finding him alone, he held out both hands: “Congratulate me, you dear old chap, I’ve got her.” To his amazement Fishpingle remained luke-warm. He said almost awkwardly: “I wish you and her ladyship all happiness, Master Lionel.” “Her ladyship!” Lionel laughed as loudly and jovially as the Squire. Then he slapped Fishpingle hard on the shoulder. “Her ladyship be—blowed for a shining bubble! I’ve hooked and landed Miss Joyce.” Fishpingle beamed speechless with emotion. It was a tremendous moment, a soul-satisfying pause as if the whole world stood still. Then he said fervently: “God bless you both! I have prayed for this day. Here, in this very room, just before you came back, the Squire and I drank a toast: ‘Master Lionel’s future wife.’” Lionel stared at him. “What? Father was thinking of—her?” “No,” said Fishpingle grimly; “but I was.” Lionel sat upon the edge of the Cromwellian table. “Sit down, old chap. What d’ye think father will say to this?” “Sir Geoffrey will say a great deal. I hardly dare think what he will say.”