Beneath the table, crouched, beautiful spectacle to a thorough-bred sportsman’s eye, as superb a brace of setters as ever ranged a stubble, or brushed the dew-drops from the heather of a highland hill. One of them was a red and white Irish dog, with large, soft, liquid eyes of the darkest hazel, a coal-black nose, palate and lips of the same thorough-bred tint, a stern feathered almost as thickly as a fox’s brush, but with hair as soft and lucent as floss silk; his legs were fringed two inches deep with the same glossy fleece, and his whole coat was as smooth and sleekly combed as the ringlets of a highborn beauty. The other was English bred, and in his own way scarce less beautiful; he was jet-black, without a speck or snip of white on forehead, breast, or feet; but legs and muzzle were of the richest and warmest tan. And he, too, showed in his well-ordered coat, bright eye, and cold, moist muzzle, the very perfection of care and science in feeding and kennel management. Beside the board, alas! for me no longer hospitable, sat the tall sportsman, his blue bird’s-eye fogle, his snuff-colored velveteen jacket, his scarlet kerseymere waistcoat, with pearl buttons, the very pattern of a garb for a winter sportsman; but, unaccustomed yet to the wet lowland shooting of the fens, he had arranged his nether man in loose trousers of brown corduroy, a most inconvenient dress for marsh shooting. He was in the act of putting together his gun, a short, powerful, heavy, double-barreled Manton, built to his own order, of unusual weight and calibre; a weapon of sure execution in safe hands, and of range almost extraordinary. I opened the door and strode in not without some considerable racket, but he never raised his eyes from the lock, which he was just screwing on, until he had accomplished his job; although, perhaps, knowing my step, perhaps guessing who it was from the increased wagging of the setters’ tails, thumping the floor in joyous recognition, he said in a quiet voice, not untouched by a sort of dry humor, “How are you, Frank? In time for once. Well, sit down, and get your breakfast. I suppose you have not fed yet.” “Fed! I should think not, truly. We don’t feed in the _night_ in my country—none of us, at least, except the woodcocks! and as for sitting down, that I can do well enough, but for the breakfast—” “Oh! ah! I had forgotten. I ate that,” said Master George, looking up very coolly. “Never mind, Frank; I have ordered a capital dinner at eight this evening, and there is a cold pheasant, and a bottle of Duff Gordon’s gold sherry in the well of the dog-cart, to say nothing of anchovy sandwiches. You must hold on till two o’clock, and then make up for lost time at luncheon. Next time you’ll be punctual.”