“No, you don’t,” she said, “and anyway you won’t get the chance to-morrow morning. I shall be off early. It’s a hunting day.” “Can’t I get a horse somewhere?” said Bertram. Mrs. MacDermott looked at him in astonishment. “Your father told me,” she said, “that you couldn’t ride and had never been on a horse in your life.” “Did he say that? The poor dad! I suppose he was afraid I’d break my neck.” “If you’re suffering from nervous breakdown----” “I am. Frightfully. That’s why they sent me here.” “Then you shouldn’t hunt,” said Mrs. MacDermott. “You should sit quietly in the library and write poetry. That reminds me, the rector is coming to dinner to-night. I thought you’d like to meet him.” “Why? Is he a sporting old bird?” “Not in the least; but he’s the only man about this country who knows anything about poetry. That’s why I asked him.” Johnny Gafferty made a report to Mrs. MacDermott when she returned from hunting which surprised her a good deal. “The young gentleman, ma’am,” he said, “was round in the stable this morning, shortly after you leaving. And nothing would do him only for me to saddle the bay for him.” “Did you do it?” “What else could I do,” said Gafferty, “when his heart was set on it?” “I suppose he’s broken his own neck and the mare’s knees,” said Mrs. MacDermott. “He has not then. Neither the one nor the other. I don’t know how he’d do if you faced him with a stone wall, but the way he took the bay over the fence at the end of the paddock was as neat as ever I seen. You couldn’t have done it better yourself, ma’am.” “He can ride, then?” “Ride!” said Gafferty. “Is it ride? If his poetry is no worse nor his riding he’ll make money by it yet.” The dinner with the rector was not an entire success. The clergyman, warned beforehand that he was to entertain a well-known poet, had prepared himself by reading several books of Wordsworth’s Excursion. Bertram shied at the name of Wordsworth and insisted on hearing from his aunt a detailed account of the day’s run. This puzzled Mrs. MacDermott a little; but she hit upon an explanation which satisfied her. The rector was enthusiastic in his admiration of Wordsworth. Bertram, a poet himself, evidently suffered from professional jealousy. Mrs. MacDermott, who had looked forward to her nephew’s visit with dread, began to enjoy it Bertram was a cheerful young man with an easy flow of slangy conversation. His tastes were very much the same as Mrs. MacDermott’s own. He smoked, and drank whisky and soda in moderate quantities. He behaved in all respects like a normal man, showing no signs of the nervousness which goes with the artistic temperament. His politeness to her and the trouble he took, about her comfort in small matters were very pleasant. He had large handsome blue eyes, and Mrs. MacDermott liked the way he looked at her. His gaze expressed a frank admiration which was curiously agreeable.